I was parking and she was screaming and for a moment I thought the world might end. You had to really hear them, piercing and full of life. The kind of shrieks only eighteen-year-old non-smoker lungs can belt out.
She was covering her mouth with one bony hand and pointing with the other. She was pointing at the lamp in front of my door and soon enough I was slamming my car door, I was running, and I was flipping the switch.
As soon as I turned the light off I could hear the buzzing, the flapping of fuzzy wings dispersing into the night. Moments earlier, a tornado of moths wrapped around my light post.
She was afraid of moths. She wouldn’t get out of my car until I swore it was safe.
This girl, we’ll call her moth girl, zoomed in and out of my life at lightning speed one time after another. We would talk, first on MySpace, then in the living room of my apartment, then on Twitter, then on a patio sharing coffee. She would disappear. We had mutual friends. We’d add each other on social media, share a message, and she’d evaporate. It became a rhythm through my twenties. Surprise visits I could never see coming, but could look forward to.