![]() The months before their wedding had been all excitement and newness. He leaned the branch against the tree, like it was a problem solved. But the boy placed a hand on her arm and pulled the branch free of her fist. She took a branch off the ground and imagined wrapping the webs like cotton candy and feeding them to the burn barrel. The girl thought of stubble on the boy’s chin, hairs scattered and wiry, sharp enough to leave the skin around her mouth raw after they kissed. The boy thought of astronauts untethered but unafraid. Cradled in the heart of their nests, the caterpillars looked like they were swimming through a fog. ![]() Up close, they saw that the nests swarmed with small caterpillars: black, the size of poppy seeds. “How do we get rid of them?” the girl asked. “Where do they come from?” the boy wanted to know. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the window, peering out through the screen. He thought she smelled like freshly cooked pasta. She thought he smelled like upturned earth. They were still growing accustomed to each other’s smells. They still marveled at the mountain-valley shapes their bodies made beneath the sheets. The boy and girl were new to commitment, only seven days married. The girl and boy woke to webby nests ghosting the branches of their apple trees. The bag worms were the first thing to go wrong.
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