A Lamplit Dance of Moths and Mist

Phillip’s shadow twirls around him as he drifts through the successive, conical dominions of light that line 31st Street in the dark hours of Sunday morning. Clusters of red Solo cups and empty beer cans on the occasional lawn are all that remain from the preceding hours of delightful sin. For a moment, Phillip allows his eyes to linger on one such cluster. The paraphernalia of alcohol: objects for observation, for pantomime, but mostly, for others. Philip would love to be drunk, constantly drunk. This is why he doesn’t drink. Instead, he absorbs the energy of his liberated friends. Mark and Jack don’t share Phillip’s aversion to substances that might make them like their fathers. They don’t fear that which removes reticence. Phillip, on the other hand, loathes his formidable inhibition but knows that its defeat would necessarily be permanent. Thus, he tricks himself into a clouded state: his inhibitions intact, but his internal monologue released to roam.

 

Tonight, Phillip takes a peculiar interest in the manner by which streetlights illuminate the dense morning haze. One in particular captures his attention. Its tired glow is the only source of light on the block, a dying lighthouse above a desolate port.

 

Within this dim refuge, two moths dance. Every so often, one of them flitters into the dark. Without fail, the other frantically follows, terrified that the wanderer may forever lose the light.

 

Phillip allows Mark and Jack to stroll boisterously in front of him, surrendering himself to the quiet beauty of the night. In this moment of peace—admiring the lamplit dance of moths and mist—Phillip hears a sharp buzz. Then, another. And another. At first, he attributes the sounds to a surge in the electronic humming of the aging streetlight above. To be sure, he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Through a veil of haze and artificial glow, Phillip sees a name.

 

At first and at once, there is no breath, no thought, no movement. Violent vibrations overtake his right shoulder and left foot. His brain abandons pursuit of previously critical physical functions, its power now solely focused on the task of processing that name on his phone on this night. Mark and Jack, having noticed Phillip’s absence, clamber back to him.

 

“You good?” Mark yells.

 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jack adds, his hand on Phillip’s shoulder.

 

Phillip stares at his phone as if it were a mythical object of divine power. He tries to speak, but his heart pounds through his throat. He tries to nod, but his head doesn’t move. All he can manage is a flick of his fingers, a plea for his friends to carry on without him. They oblige, leaving him alone within the hazy column of light he had come to appreciate just a moment ago. Phillip fidgets with his phone then puts it to his ear.

 

At first, a hum. Then, breath.

 

“Phillip?”

 

That voice—a forgotten melody remembered. His hands tremble. The phone bounces against his ear. He looks down the empty street. An exhale, and

 

“I’m here.”

 

Heavy breaths.

 

“Margaux? You okay?”

 

“Yeah…I just. I’m sorry I know it’s late. I just. I guess I needed to talk to someone. Sorry, I couldn’t think of anyone else.”

 

“That’s okay. I, uh…It’s good to hear your voice.” Phillip slides to the ground, his back against the streetpost, his legs on the concrete, and his empty hand clutching at the newly damp grass.

 

Swallow.

 

“Do you ever think about the first party I took you to?”

 

Phillip glances to the light above him. It flickers. The hum grows louder. It gives way to the deep rhythmic thumping of bass and the clamor of a screaming crowd. Deep green, kind eyes stare back at him. He closes his own. Her thumb caresses his cheek; her fingers bring his face to hers.

 

“Maybe sometimes.”

 

Scoff.

 

“Ok fine, all the time.”

 

Laughter.

 

Phillip bites his inner cheek to tame the tensions that grip his mouth. Heat attacks his eyes from within. He snaps his head upwards and squints. The moths circle each other now, spiralling downwards. As they near his face, one of them spins out of formation and dashes into the dark. The other pauses for a moment then follows. With a deep breath, Phillip brings his eyes back to the emptiness before him.

 

“Why’d you call, Margaux?”

 

“You ever feel lost, Phillip?”

 

“Lost how?”

 

“Like time’s moving so fast you can’t remember who you were yesterday or who you’re trying to be tomorrow?”

 

A motorcycle zips by, heading east with purpose. Phillip follows it with his gaze, as its silhouette recedes into the darkness. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words escape.

 

“I guess you remind me of a time when I didn’t feel this way.”

 

Phillip pulls out a clump of grass, his lips pursed tight. He rolls the grass around in his hand. The blades fall through his fingers.

 

“Why’d we do this to ourselves, Margaux?”

 

“Do what?”

 

“The all and then…the nothing.”

 

“You were the one who said it was better to love and lose. I thought it was better to avoid both.”

 

“I remember. You said it like it was possible.”

 

A broken voice:

 

“Come to Chicago, Phillip. Even for a day. Please.”

 

The streetlight flickers, fast this time. The hum builds to a din.

 

“I need to see you, Phillip. Do you understand?”

 

“You know I do. Like we promised. I’ll be there.”

 

Silence.

 

Phillip’s phone clatters to the concrete, his tears a mighty river against a rotting wooden dam.

 

Above him, the moths chase each other in tight circles through the flashing light. One of them breaks off and darts into the unseen. Just as the other moth commits to his pursuit, the streetlight flickers once more then succumbs to the dark.

 

He floats in the nothingness, desperate for dawn to reunite him with his lover.

 

Keaton Orava is a junior at USC majoring in Narrative Studies with minors in Cinematic Arts and Theatre. Born in London and raised in Washington D.C., Keaton has a passion for storytelling in all of its forms. As part of this love of narrative, Keaton aspires to be a film/TV writer-producer and also pursues acting and songwriting.