His Green Delight

The morning slithers through the half-shut blinds and causes the two to twist and sigh. He’s on his back and his pale hand flows through the sheets, the blankets, to find her skin. The palm glides over it. Neither opens their eyes, not yet. It’s a late morning—almost noon. He blinks and draws a hand to rub sleep from his eyes. She’d like him to stay as much as he’d be willing to—the longer the better—but his wish is always shorter than hers. He’s drawn to his room back home. Something in him, despite the luxury of sharing a bed with her, requires time apart. Though she loves him and he loves her in turn, there are unexpressed aspects that fidget, nudge, and tick. It’s the inexplicable between them; how he so willingly leaves her embrace to rush off. For if they truly love, why does he gravitate somewhere other than her side? What wind blows him away, and why doesn’t he shut the window to it?

A text buzzes him fully awake. Your sister caught a May beetle for you. Photographic proof accompanied. He jolts up from bed, too suddenly for this languid morning, and she turns to him with a worried, drowsy look. Where did his slow caresses go? And he is beaming with inexplicable delight—bursting with it—incredulous and starry-eyed. When he explains the reason for his state and shows her the image on his phone, it does nothing to explain it. She knows of his affinity for insects, but frankly, it’s something she’d rather not think about, and she cannot fathom how mere affinity makes him glow brighter than she’s ever seen him with her. Truly, even he’s not sure why the sight of the iridescent-green Cetonia aurata, the rose chafer beetle—for that is its correct designation—makes his core sing.

Now he’s out of bed; he pulls on his socks, his jeans. She slowly sits up and reluctantly allows more sunlight into the room. The sight of her squinting and looking somewhat sad pinches his heart (it’s already gaining a greenish tint), but he’s buttoning up his lurid mess of a Hawaiian shirt. Once he’s dressed for the upcoming ascent, he’s at her side, and she bends her knees to allow him to sit. He’s unapologetically apologetic, and he strokes her knee while attempting to rein in the viridescence infecting him; he knows his happiness is the source of the unease in her face.

— Are you really going so soon—because of that?

— I have to; I haven’t seen one like that in years.

— Can’t it wait? It’s caught; I saw it’s in a box.

— I know, but anything can happen between now and then, and I must see it now.

— Don’t you want to stay with me a bit longer?

— I (think I) do, but I must go and greet it. I hope I do not die on the way.

— Okay.

— Okay?

As he takes his hand away, some trick of the light makes his fingers look different. She bunches up tighter and turns toward her phone. She scrolls and types with soft clacks on the screen. She listens to him collect his things—unzipping, zipping, unzipping again—the backpack he has brought with him the evening before. He is taking himself away, and more and more color shows on him. The mirror confirms; his skin is wholly metallic green. With his boots on, his steps turn into deep thuds on the parquet. He has not even brushed his teeth. She looks at him standing there before her bed, and something tells her he is not all that he seems when he is with her. Her pink slippers are on the floor; she steps into them. Her golden hair is dishevelled and heartwarming; it momentarily elicits in him the need to smooth it. He stays his hand when she moves past him to lead him downstairs.

Silence settles between the scarabeous man and the gilt woman. By the time they reach the door with him jingling after her, the fine hairs on her neck prickle. His being out of sight behind her is suddenly unnerving. She needs to have her eyes on him. And as if sensing his effect on her, he overtakes her and stands by the door. With him in sight she feels a bit better—good, he hasn’t escaped into some nook—and folds her arms while waiting for him to leave. He gives her one last look, truly apologetic then, and lets himself out after a brief farewell and a kiss on her cheek (did she recoil?). And while he scurries down the stairwell, she locks the door behind him and lets out a sigh of relief. Once he is out on the street, sunbeams light his carapace aglint. He picks up the pace—almost runs—and his chitin sparkles and casts emeralds around him. And now he is running—yes, why not?—running with his backpack jingling harder against him. All-encompassing wind greets him, and he feels not two but six legs sprinting him home.

In a blur of speed, he is there, and his family glints with the same metallic chitin, and he kneels, a supplicant before the scarab his sister miraculously found, recognized its significance, and thought to invite into their home. It scurries over his fingers and the moment is holy. He studies it under yellow lamp, then direct sunlight. It is a benignant, sublime, and simple sight. When will I see you again? He watches the rose chafer standing on his fingertips and thinks it is the illusive given arthropod form. On that perch its glittering elytra open to reveal the powerful, dark wings hidden underneath. They unfurl and buzz furious—angelic—out his window and into the fragrant afternoon air.

He is left pale and yearning for some green delight.