Rosalie sat in her wire chair and watched a butterfly float around her garden. She has always been fascinated by winged creatures. As she watched the butterfly darting around she poured herself another cup of tea from the blue teapot she had inherited from her mother. Although Rosalie was by herself and never had any guests, the table was laden with several sets of cups and saucers. Without removing her gaze from the fragile yet graceful flight of the butterfly she selected a biscuit from the bowl, broke it in half, and offered one half to Sam, her yellow Labrador, lying in his customary position at her feet.
Rosalie thought about flying, as she often does. She was obsessed with the idea. As she watched the butterfly float from leaf to leaf she thought: I could do that. She had mentioned the idea to her counselor once who had told her that it was silly and that humans can’t fly. But as long as she imitated the butterfly’s movements perfectly she could do it. Rosalie was suddenly enticed and excited by the thought, how would the counselor know if it were possible or not anyway? She abruptly stood up from her wire chair, startling Sam. She was going to do it!
The butterfly made a refined landing on the mirror that was lying face up on the table. It took off again, the flap of its wings gently disturbing the white powder neatly laid out in perfect lines across the reflective surface. Rosalie watched the butterfly until it disappeared over the wall, then bent over the table, put a straw to her nose and snorted up her eleventh line for the day.
She removed the ladder from the shed and laid it against the wall. Excited, she almost ran up the rungs until she was on the roof of her two-story house, the action confusing Sam. Rosalie took a deep breath, visualizing the flight of the butterfly. Then she leaped.