She flicked the butterfly, but its powdery wings remained fixed to the menu. The man was impatient. He picked the menu off the table and shook the butterfly onto the sidewalk.
The vinaigrette, he said, and passed her the menu. And I’ll have some sparkling water. With a slice of lime.
We don’t have sparkling water.
Then regular water.
Irene nodded toward the glass next to his phone on the table.
Fine, the man said, taking in the water. Do you have lime?
We have lemon.
The man turned to his smartphone and Irene stood uncertainly. The butterfly fanned its wings where it had fallen, a spot of iridescent blue in the creek bed of foot traffic and she thought to pick it up.
The man looked up.
That’s fine, he said, and stared and Irene clutched the menu and glancing towards the butterfly, a surge of rage, as if…
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