Moth to a Flame by Adele Evershed

I’ll never forget her because she was the first to talk to me on that bright, dreaded first day of uni. But beyond the circumstances of our meeting, her eyes left the most profound impression. They sloped down at the edges, making her seem so much older than me, and in their soft doe browness, I thought I could see a kindness. But, of course, I know now I was wrong.

We were waiting outside Burnett Hall to get our room assignments. I was dressed like all the other potential female inmates, trying to fit in, a uniform of jeans and unbrushed hair. But Elle wore tight leather trousers that squeaked like an adventure as she inched forward. Her hair fell in glossy waves; I imagined it had never been Harmonied or backcombed in her life.

She offered me an Opal Fruit, and although it was cherry, I took it. I chewed and rolled the pale pink paper into a knot. Elle said, “Oh, I’m so glad you like the cherry ones. I know we’re going to be friends.” Then she asked, “What’s your favorite tree?” It was an odd question, but it didn’t seem so at the time, and I can only think it was the nerves or the sugar high.

I thought about the cherry tree in our garden. My mother loved to take a picnic blanket, and we’d sit underneath it as it blossomed pink confetti every spring. But after she died, my father said it was infested, and he’d chopped it down. I was ten. I pulled my hair over my face and said, “I love the cherry tree at home, so maybe that,” as if it was still there instead of just blooming in my memory. Elle raised her over-plucked eyebrows and said with a hint of a laugh, “Cherry Opal Fruits and now the tree. I think I’m spotting a theme.”

In her room, Elle made coffee and served it in bone china cups. She had a set, each with a picture of a butterfly. When she saw me looking at the startling orange butterfly, she said, “It’s called a Gatekeeper. Pretty, isn’t it? But I prefer moths. I bet you didn’t know moths have great names? Flame Shoulder, or Purple Thorn. And they are beautiful. Nobody takes the time to look at them” Then she smiled and, coming closer, whispered, “A bit like you maybe?” She gently pushed my hair behind my ears and, dipping her finger in lip gloss, smeared it over my lips, saying, “Let’s go out and dance until dawn.” And then she kissed me.

Was that the moment I fell in love with her? Maybe. And maybe that is why it took me so long to realize Elle’s interest was like that of a lepidopterist. She collected specimens, pinned them under glass, and then moved on.

Sometimes I wonder if she liked moths so much, not because of their hidden beauty but because they left holes in things.

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Adele Evershed is a Welsh writer. Some of the places her work has been published include Grey Sparrow Journal, Anti Heroin Chic, Gyroscope, and Janus Lit. Adele has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net for poetry and has two poetry collections, Turbulence in Small Spaces (Finishing Line Press) and The Brink of Silence (Bottlecap Press). She has published a novella in flash with Alien Buddha Press called Wannabe and her short story collection; Suffer/Rage has recently been published by Dark Myth Publications.

Find her on X @AdLibby1, Instagram @ad_libby and Blusky @adlibby.bsky.social

Turbulence in Small Places     Wannabe  ( Available from the FFF Bookshop! )    The Brink of Silence

Read the FFF Competition Nineteen Winning Flash Fiction – Scenes of War and Other Things I’ve Forgotten by Adele Evershed

Read more of her work @thelithag.com.

Photo by sk at Pexels

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