Amanda chuckled quietly to herself as she watched the Malachite crawl up her outstretched leg. Four summers volunteering at the local live butterfly conservatory had yet to wear away the wonder she felt every time she stepped inside. The little greenhouse, a side exhibit in Brookside Gardens, got oppressively hot and crowded later in the summer; right now, near closing time in mid-May, was the best time to sit back, keep an eye on those mischievous twins with the magnifying glasses, and enjoy the soft rustle of the wings of five hundred butterflies, up close and personal. The petite young woman brushed escaping wisps of blonde hair out of her eyes, stretched languidly, stood up slowly so as not to disturb the green butterfly tickling her calf, and checked her watch. Her shift lasted another hour and ten minutes, but the conservatory stopped letting visitors in at four, so the end of the shift promised to be quiet. She glanced down at the Stephen King novel tucked into her regulation purple apron, anticipating a relaxing afternoon.
Anticipation gave way to curiosity, however, as the entrance doors opened with a familiar creak. Amanda caught her breath as a gorgeous young photographer stepped inside. He moved with the quiet grace of those who knew their way around the place; photographing insects that start at a breath of air requires far more care and patience than most visitors know. The young docent at the exit completely forgot the butterfly on her leg as she watched him, admiring the shoulder-length, sun-streaked brown hair brushing against his camera.
Soon enough, it was time for the mischievous twins to be shepherded home, and Amanda recovered herself long enough to perform the regulation check for hidden butterflies. After releasing an orange Julia Longwing from the brim of the little girl's hat, she sent the visitors on their merry way and turned to find their last visitor of the afternoon standing right next to her. As a rule, she tried not to make any sudden moves around the butterflies, but it took all of her self-control not to jump or frantically search for another errand.
The visitor, though, seemed completely at ease as he addressed her. "Are they usually this still? This is remarkable."
Amanda recovered her practiced poise, but just barely. "Uh, well, it's actually kind of chilly out, as far as they're concerned. It needs to get about ten degrees hotter than this before they're really active."
"By which point it can't be terribly pleasant in this glass box, I take it." He stood perhaps five-ten, most of a head taller than her, and he spoke with just a trace of an accent.
"Well, when you've got three classes of second-graders in here, plus a hundred other people, it gets oppressive. But the sight is worth it." She tried for her best charming smile; being out of practice, she feared she'd donned the one marked 'witless grin' instead.
"I'd imagine it is. Are you here all summer...Amanda Lane?" He'd read the regulation name badge pinned to her white Wings of Fancy T-shirt.
"Off and on, whenever they need me. I'm interning with a Latin American interest group downtown, so I'm mostly here on the weekends." Realizing she was about to tell her life story to a complete stranger, and a very attractive one, she caught herself. "I believe you have the advantage of me, mister...?"
"David Cook." He offered a hand, and she shook it heartily. His large, strong, weathered hand nearly engulfed her small one. "Latin America, eh? That's a far cry from butterflies."
