Wouldn’t Hurt a Fly
The two mothers sat on the deck chairs, sipping cocktails in the late summer sun. They watched the young boy, Max, plucking daisies from the grass and tucking them gently into his baby cousin’s fine blonde curls. The four year old then pressed a wet kiss to the girl’s face and she shrieked with joy.
“Oh, look at him,” said Jenny, watching her little nephew playing with her daughter. “He’s so gentle with her, it’s lovely to see. He wouldn’t hurt a fly would he?”
Her sister, Lynda, smiled. “No, he really wouldn’t.” She took a sip of her cocktail and tipped her head back and closed her eyes, enjoying the sun on her face. “Butterflies are a different story of course.”
“Oh?” said Jenny.
“Mmm. He loves flies, like you say he wouldn’t hurt one of them. But butterflies he seems to have it in for, for some reason. I caught him last week with half a dozen of them trapped in a jar; he was burning their wings off with matches. It was quite uncomfortable to watch. I’m thinking of taking him to see someone about it. Make sure he’s not one of those psychopaths.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said Jenny, turning again to the angelic little boy in the garden. “I’m sure it’s just a phase. He’ll grow out of it soon enough.”
