Beetle
Rosie McCrossin

“‘It’s the last day of our summer,’ she whispers, her feet gripping the branch. He squeezes his fingers into the bark of the bottlebrush until he can feel the blood draw out of them. A tiny goldengreen beetle crawls across his knuckles, shining through the night like an emerald in a grandmother’s necklace. He raises his hand gently and the beetle contorts its antennae to ghost his skin. He places his fingers on hers and the beetle takes hesitant steps toward her, extending its tiny antennae again …”