Firefly

Three weeks passed.

“I can't take much more of this,” Harper complained, throwing herself into the chair. She handed Lucciola her coffee. “ I mean don't get me wrong, I love the attention, but this solo stuff is hard work.”

“But you wanted the Spanish dance,” Lucciola reminded her. Her eyes swept the room, but she saw no eyes staring at her. The Garden of Eden was empty.

“That's because it is sex-y,” Harper said. She popped her lips on both syllables. “How often do I get to use these fabulous hips of mine? It's always 'keep your back straight' and 'buttox in ladies. You are not a rapper's girlfriend!' I am a woman, not a fence post!”

“I sense a long, drawn out lecture coming on,” Lucciola sighed. “I'm too tired for this. Can I take a nap first?”

“You're not even paying attention,” Harper pouted, and crossed her arms. Her eyes followed Lucciola's. “What are you looking at, anyway?”

“Nothing,” Lucciola replied quickly. It didn't matter anyway. He wasn't here.

“Oooh,” Harper breathed. She smirked, her lips thinning out and her eyes drooping in a cat like expression. She leaned across the table towards Lucciola. “You're looking for that guy, aren't you? The cutie who came to your rescue.” Lucciola felt herself blush. Her grip on her coffee cup tightened, and she looked away from Harper's mischievous grin to the barista bar, where the guy was cleaning the espresso machine. He looked bored.

“If you ask me, that guy is pretty cute,” Harper said, following her gaze. “I love red heads.”

“You love free coffee,” Lucciola corrected her. “Is there a guy left in here you haven't flirted with?”

“Why should I settle down for one man when I can have multiple free coffees?” Harper asked.

“Because your heart should only belong to one man.”

“A ballerina's heart belongs to the theater,” Harper reminded her. She skimmed the foam off of her latte with her finger, turned around to catch the barista's eye, and then slowly licked it off. She cocked her head back, letting her platinum curls fall down her back. The barista stared at her, transfixed, and then when he noticed Lucciola looking at him as well, coughed and returned his attention to the espresso machine hastily.

“And what about your heart?” she asked, turning her attention back to Lucciola. “Does it belong to that knight in shining armor of yours?”

“He said his name was Aries.”

“How incredibly....unique.”

“There was something strange about him,” Lucciola pressed. “I'm not sure what it was, but even when he saved my life I felt like he was...dangerous.” Her fingers played absently with the lip of her coffee mug. She could still see him standing in front of her, his imposing posture, how he had stared down at the bug eyed man as if he truly were an insect, and he was bored with everything in front of him. How fake his charm had seemed. How strange his eyes had been.

The earthquake he had conjured, strong enough to shatter the walls, and then disappeared with the snap of a finger.

“How delicious,” Harper purred. The bell on the front door rang.

“Welcome to the Garden of Eden!” the barista called out. Instinctively, Lucciola turned her head to see who had walked in.

Her heart stopped. Her fingers paused on the coffee mug. The man turned his head to look at her, tucking a loose strand of white hair behind his ear. She caught sight of his eyes.

They were brown.

Lucciola quickly looked away. The guy shrugged and moved up to the bar. Harper looked over her shoulder at him and scrunched her nose up in distaste.

“Ew. Bad bleach job much? What a goth.”

“There's nothing wrong with goths, Harper,” Lucciola said, but she didn't feel it in her to argue. She'd been so sure for a second that it was him, that she'd get to see him again. Not that she knew why she even wanted to
.
“You're doping for it bad, girl,” Harper snickered. She stood up. “You want a muffin?”

“Dancers don't eat carbs,” Lucciola reminded her.

“No. Skeletons don't eat carbs, because they don't eat. You, my love, are an athlete. Athletes eat carbs. Blueberry or chocolate chip?”

“I-”

“Right,” Harper interrupted. “Silly me. Chocolate chip.” She flitted away. Lucciola watched her head up to the bar, leaning against it and twirling a lock of her hair around her finger as she talked to the barista boy. The goth kid with the brown eyes walked out. The bell rang as he opened the door, and a gust of cold air flew into the shop, brushing up against Lucciola's shoulder. A pair of yellow eyes watched her from the street, but were gone again as soon as the door shut.

The Garden of Eden was very warm, small and tucked away from the streets outside, where winter growled in warning. A yellow light from the gray shadows outside, filled with laughter and the smell of coffee beans and sugar. Outside, the flower graveyard was wilting. Lucciola suddenly felt very alone.

***

“Hey! Over here!”

“Can you lace up my bust for me?”

“Is my tiara on right?”

“Hey! Over here! Bring it this way!”

“Can I use your lipstick?”

“Let me do that! You have a bobby pin sticking out!”

Time was passing before her eyes. The final week of rehearsal was chaotic, the dressing room buzzing with chatter. The air was thick with hairspray, visible in waves under the hot lights. Lucciola's tutu shook around her as she stretched. Today's rehearsal would be in full costume.

“You look lovely in black,” Harper complimented, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of hair back into Lucciola's bun. “You make a perfect black swan.” Lucciola laughed.

“You think so?”

“Yes. I find you so irresistibly sexy,” Harper purred. “Can I be your prince?” She flipped open her fan, hiding her mouth and nose behind the curtain of lace. Her eyes were bright and mischievous under her fake eyelashes, and she waggled her eyebrows.

“You need more eyeliner,” Lucciola observed. She opened the vanity drawer where she kept her makeup, but her fingers paused over her stage kit. Sitting on top was a note. She pulled it out of the drawer and held it up for Harper to see. Harper snapped her fan close and scrunched up her eyes, scrutinizing the piece of paper.

“What does it say?” she asked. Lucciola shrugged.

“I don't know, but the hand writing is atrocious,” she said. Harper scooted closer, peering at it over her shoulder. They read it together.

House flies shouldn't try to follow a butterfly's footsteps. You better watch yourself, or you'll get smashed.

Harper snorted. “What an idiot. As if we don't know it's Abigail.” She shook her head and sighed. “That girl is out to get you. I told you she was sub human.”

“Madame Lucille adores her,” Lucciola sighed. She balled up the note and threw it in the trash. “If it were up to her, I would have lost my position already.” She handed Harper the eyeliner. “Let's forget about it.”

“Well as dumb as Abigail is, she did get one thing right,” Harper said. She looked Lucciola dead in the eye, her expression serious, gravitating under her dark stage makeup. “Watch yourself around her.”