In addition to Twilight fanfiction, this middle-aged lady has another secret and highly-embarrassing pleasure to confess: her emotional enjoyment of the sweet melodies of those cherubic toddlers, One Direction. OMG, I can't help myself!

But I also can't look at them singing the music—so earnestly, with so much youthful naivete just pouring out from behind their oversized sunglasses-without erupting in giggles (whether at me or at them I'm not sure it matters—as long as I laugh with love), so I play it in the background while I'm doing dishes or writing fanfic. They all go well together, the incessant real-life drudgery necessitating the escapist fantasy life. And so my life hums along—quickly—to its end.

Meanwhile, however, I'm finding "Night Changes" to be the very appropriate theme music to my week, especially the line "Having no regrets is all that she really wants." Yes (and no, depending on how narrowly and spiritually one defines 'regrets'), and so here I am churning out this particular story with a frenzy borne of unusually consistent and clear in-my-head dialogue and the awareness of tonight [actually, three Fridays ago—I got interrupted in posting by real life] as a sort of cultural landmark…in which someone almost like me (except infinitely more beautiful, smart and sexually-appealing, but let's not nitpick) will be paraded on the cultural market stage and found, inevitably, ridiculous even while being aggravatingly compelling to a significant portion of the female audience.

Sort of like the reception of New Moon, one of two movies (the other being Dirty Girl) in which I've ever SEEN myself (the depressed part, not the being adored by gorgeous vampires part, duh), one review by a British male that particularly sticks in my brain being, "There's mopey, and then there's mopey-mopey-mopey-oh-my-God-in-heaven-when-will-this-ever-end-mopey," or something like that, and I had to laugh—because he had a point. But there's a point to New Moon, and "mopey" Bella, too.

Or a comfort, if you prefer. And I think I'm figuring out that this comfort is akin to helping the butterfly ignore the fact of the semi truck barreling down on its oblivious trajectory certain to cause the butterfly's oblivion. It's all so matter-of-fact, really, the way we are in our heads and hearts having nothing to do with the way the world is in its heartless laws of physics, and the collision between the two destroying us much more than the universe. So why be upset about it? Why get mad at the semi? Why not just enjoy the circuitous, lilting paths of our little lives, ignoring the imminent destruction because there's no way around it unless we stop being butterflies?

Maybe I am working on being a bird instead. Maybe that's the wisest course of action. But in my heart, somewhere, I hope I'll always be insubstantial and light as air, un-self-consciously beautiful as I spend my days in sunshine, seeking out the beauty and sweetness in the world around me.

And hoping, imagining, that somewhere there is a protected place where butterflies are free to stay that way til their old-age ends. Why? Because it would mean someone besides me can see their beauty, and therefore mine. And that's a welcome and rare affirming thought for this butterfly-become-a-wren. Or somedays, a crow. (Still not an eagle ;) .)

Much love,

liza the butterfly

XxXxXx

As Edward strode towards the elevator bank in Rose and Bella's building, he passed by a family knot moving the same direction. A mother and nanny were hovering over toddler twins in a duo-stroller, while a cynical-looking 5-year-old stared with open calculation, tinged with derision, at Edward.

Edward raised his eyebrows at the frank appraisal the child gave him, chilled by the lack of both fear and any softer human feelings it contained. He was unsure whether to condemn the bumbling mother figures trying, equally ineptly, to coax leaking slushy cups out of the toddlers' grasps or feel sorry for them; he was absolutely certain, however, that he wanted to beat them all to the elevator and avoid their company on the ride up.

He would have made it, only the five-year-old, with a malicious grin on his face, takes after Edward at a run and barrels on the elevator just as the doors are closing. Edward is forced by both good manners and utter unwillingness to be alone with this Lord of the Flies-child in a confined space to hold the Open Doors button until the boy's entourage catch up to them; it takes an aggravating couple of minutes before everyone, with all their associated bags and accoutrement, are installed.

Finally, not a word of thanks or even acknowledgement having come from either woman towards Edward, he is able to let go of the hold button and hit the "6".

The women still say nothing to him as the elevator moves, the mother being too busy chastising the nanny for buying cherry flavored drinks, which would explain the red food coloring staining the front of the mother's own outfit not to mention the little boy's.

The nanny is alternating between a desperately placating "Yes, Mrs. Porterfield," and impassioned attempts at defending herself. "But you said you wanted them quiet on the trip home—they were quiet!"

Edward closes his eyes at the unpleasantness, but finds himself saying almost against his will, "Did you ladies want me to push a floor for you?"

There's a break in their back-and-forth as they both stare at him, as if it was a surprising, even nonsensical question. "Why, the penthouse, of course," the mother said, then tilted her head to study Edward more closely. "Do I know you?"

Edward realized belatedly she did indeed know him, she being the second—make that third—wife of his parents' investment advisor, an old-money man with a knack for producing sizably-increasing returns without a whiff of fraud.

But Edward didn't tell her that. He just smiled a very small smile and shook his head, grateful for the child who chose that moment to dump the last of her slushy down her front and then start screaming—whether from wet discomfort or frustration was anyone's guess.

As the elevator made a maddening stop onto an empty hallway on the fourth floor, Edward found the five-year-old staring at him again, quite rudely. Edward was about to return the rudeness by turning away—though not so far as to leave his back exposed to the reprobate—when he caught sight of something the boy was moving back and forth along the floor of the elevator. It happened to be a plush snow leopard, though all Edward could tell for sure was that it was a stuffed animal that looked soft. And cuddly.

As the elevator opened on the sixth floor, Edward hit the hold button again and turned back to the boy, still studying Edward with narrowed eyes. "What?" the boy asked sullenly.

The five-year-old's ostensible co-overseers were immersed in trying to comfort his still-screaming sister, so Edward addressed his question to the boy himself. "How much do you want for that stuffed animal?"

The boy lifted it up evaluatingly by the tail, as he'd been carrying it, and thought for a moment. Then looking Edward dead-on he said, "Fifty bucks."

Edward's not surprised; he had already pegged the kid for a greedy little beggar—and besides, fifty bucks was probably not too far north of what his mother had actually shelled out for it. Thinking of said mother, Edward turned to her—or to her bent back—and said, "Ma'am, would you object to me buying your son's stuffed animal?"

"What?" she asked, in a harassed tone, and with the sullen source of her son's attitude, as well as his rude linguistic habits, evident.

Deciding he'd better move fast before the boy decided he wanted to thwart Edward more than he wanted the power of Edward's money, Edward said to the mother, now looking up at him with a cross expression but still dabbing at a fresh spot on her shirt with a baby wipe, "Could I give your son fifty dollars in exchange for the stuffed animal he's carrying? He seems okay with it; of course, I will replace the animal as well. I assume you bought it at the zoo?" Edward wasn't going out on a limb; both sides of the stroller had a bright "Central Park Zoo" balloon tied to the handle.

The woman just stared at him for a moment, while the boy interjected, "I don't want another leopard. I want the big gorilla."

Edward turned back to him and acted out some hesitation, as if that might be too much, then stifled a grin as he saw the fear that he'd asked for too much and lost the deal flicker across the boy's eyes. It was a shame the child was so unpleasant; he could have made a skillful negotiator some day if only he were able to keep people in the same room with him.

After letting the boy hang in uncertainty for a couple seconds, Edward says slowly, "I guess that would be alright. Is that at the gift shop too?"

The boy nodded, the relief on his face making him look his age for the first time since Edward had encountered him, and Edward cheerfully got out his wallet as he looked back at the mother and asked, "Is that alright with you then? I'd be most appreciative."

The woman didn't have time to reply before her younger son started screaming, his sister, who had just stopped her own screaming, having whacked him with a sippy cup. Moving to inspect the screamer for blood while the nanny confiscated the sippy cup, causing the sister to start screaming again too, the mother said in a voice just loud enough to carry over her offspring, "Fine with me, if that's what Bryce wants."

Back to the boy, and resisting the urge to cover his ears, Edward asks good-naturedly, "Bryce, do we have a deal?"

"Let me see the money."

Edward extended the fifty-dollar bill he'd pulled out of his wallet, careful not to give Bryce a peek at the substantial number of other, larger bills that were in there. Bryce reached his hand up towards the bill, but Edward pulled it away a little, saying, "You're sure you want to trade?"

Lured in by the stern countenance of Ulysses S. Grant, Bryce burst out "Yes," and proved it by holding the leopard up by the tail towards Edward. Gingerly taking the animal by its body instead, Edward lowered the fifty and felt it snatched out of his hand by a happy Bryce.

"I'll get you the gorilla tomorrow," Edward promised as he held open one of the closing elevator doors long enough to step off the elevator. "Thank you, Bryce."

Bryce responded with, "The big one!" but didn't bother looking up from his cash, nor did his mother turn back around from her still-screaming toddlers. Not that Edward noticed, as he was now intent on scouting out apartment 6A while the elevator doors closed shut behind him.

It wasn't hard to find, there being only two apartments on each floor, with the entry doors facing each other along a hallway ending with a sizable window looking out onto Central Park.

Edward examined the gold numbers on each door, and started with the one on the left: 6A.

Not really expecting any success, he strode over and started knocking firmly on the door. "Isabella? Isabella Swan?" he called in a loud, deep voice meant to carry.

He knocked some more, then added, "It's Edward Cullen, sweetheart. Would you let me in please?"

He had just started in on another round of almost-pounding knocking when the door behind him swung open and he heard an old, crotchety voice saying, "For Goodness' sake, what is going on out here?"

Edward dropped his hand and turned on his heels, plastering as innocent and friendly a look on his face as he could muster at the sight before him: an ancient-appearing woman with a slightly-tattered silk shawl held tight around her shoulders by one claw-like hand while the other gripped a metal-tipped—and very deadly-looking—cane.

The eyes that looked him over were a faded but still clear and remarkably sharp blue, and as the formidable old hag (as Edward was thinking of her) tottered closer, her balance as much hurt by the old-fashioned high-heels she was wearing as it was helped by the cane she leaned on, he felt those eyes rake over him. The calculations he watched unfold as the eyes moved were not generous, but he hoped they might be fair.

He tested it. "Good evening. I am Edward Cullen. I apologize for disturbing you."

She met his politeness with her own. Drawing herself up, the formidable lady (Edward was wisely altering his inner vocabulary, being sensitive to the skills of fellow mind readers) said, "Good evening, Mr. Cullen. I am Mrs. Cope, Isabella's neighbor, and if she is not responding to such vociferous attempts at alerting her to your presence, I can only surmise she is either not at home or not desiring of your company."

Edward grinned at this, to which Mrs. Cope merely raised her brows in challenge, leaning in towards her intended victim with a great deal of relish, for the arthritis that was the bane of her elderly existence kept her far too often from the much-loved joy of intimidating others. "Do you find it amusing to disturb ladies from their evening repose, young man?"

Edward removed the grin from his face, moving it to his eyes, and shook his head in acceptance of her censure. "Not at all, Mrs. Cope. I am very sorry indeed for disturbing you."

Mrs. Cope accepted the appropriately-chastened young man's elegant apology, twinkling eyes graciously overlooked, with a slight nod, indicating it was merely what she was due. But the very slight upturn of her own lips and the kindling of some new warmth in her own eyes gave away the fact that such a response was not what she usually received from today's rude youth.

Isabella being a much-appreciated exception.

And thinking of Isabella in this appreciative light, Mrs. Cope resumes her worthy protective sally against the interloper in the hallway, suggesting, "If you telephone Miss Swan and request the honor of a daytime appointment, I am sure she will oblige you if you have any merit at all. She is a very discriminating and well-mannered young lady, not at all like her roommate," (Mrs. Cope couldn't help adding that part in, just as Edward couldn't help thinking "Meow"), "and must be treated accordingly."

There was no smile on the dowager's face now, though there was a great deal of enjoyment in her heart as she managed, from her much-shrunken height, to stare down the long-legged and well-dressed, not to mention very handsome, young man before her.

Mrs. Cope had been a gorgeous young belle and a beautiful—and powerful—middle-aged socialite, but she refused to grieve the loss of her attractiveness and social power, instead redirecting any frustrations with the brutality of aging and physical decay into derision for and censure of the very sorts of people she used to be, and to date, and to marry. Which may have been why she was free to feel so fond of Isabella (like Edward, Mrs. Cope much preferred Bella's full name); there was nothing in her that Mrs. Cope could relate to and therefore feel threatened by.

Meanwhile, Edward was wisely allowing the precariously-balanced but still-impressive-in-her-aggressive-display protector the satisfaction of seeing him cringe, just a little bit. He manufactured this reaction for his current opponent's benefit, giving her his regard as a fellow warrior wise enough to realize those smart and tough enough to be all-victorious will eventually survive long enough to be impossibly past their prime, but also for his own, hoping placating the tough old bird (his mental filter was off again) would win her over into collusion with his plans for cornering Isabella.

Feeling he had flattered Mrs. Cope as much as was necessary or tolerable, Edward resumed his full height and his authoritative voice, though with an unusual added layer of deferential respect, and said, "I'm afraid Isabella is unwell, Mrs. Cope, and I cannot delay seeing her. She is not responding to phone calls from myself or others who are close to her"—he prudently avoided mentioning Rosalie's name—"and we are worried about what condition she may be in. Might you be willing to help me by using your spare key to check on her?"

"Well, I don't know about helping you, , as you are a complete stranger to me. But I am certainly glad to help Isabella. Perhaps she will answer the door for me." And hoping to show up the arrogant young man, the arrogant old woman marched up to the door of 6A and rapped, painfully.

"Yoo-hoo, Isabella, are you home? This is Shelley Cope, from across the hall. Would you let me in, dear?"

When there was no response after several seconds to her summons, or the two that followed either, Mrs. Cope had to choose between admitting defeat or signing on to the handsome Edward Cullen's theory that Isabella was sick or compromised seriously somehow. And being a woman allergic to defeat, it really wasn't much of a choice.

"Well, I suppose that opening the door so we can hear her if she's calling to us wouldn't be remiss," she offered, making that decision easily but finding it harder to contemplate tottering regally all the way back across the hall and to her own entryway to retrieve Isabella's spare key from her mahogany entryway table.

Edward guessed at her quandary, and made the gallant offer to retrieve the spare key for her, an offer graciously accepted because, of course, "You are closer to my door, it is true, and we shouldn't waste any time in checking on the girl. You'll find her key in my cloisonné bowl on the entryway tabletop; it has a ridiculous blue plastic hook on the chain but I haven't found the time to change it out for something more appropriate."

Actually, she had tried several times to get the key off the ring it had arrived on and onto something more tasteful, but had been foiled every time by her swollen arthritic fingers. She makes a mental note now to ask this young man with fingers presumably as strong as the rest of him to pry the key off when he returns it to her, and she smiles with pleasure at the thought of having that cheap blue plastic out of her entryway.

Edward is back quickly with said key, and indeed shows off both strong and nimble fingers as he opens Isabella's door in record time, swinging it open wide and sweeping his arm before him as he says, "After you," with a little bow towards Mrs. Cope.

She nods back at him, and enters regally, making a very slow bee-line for her favorite chair in Bella's living room: a stiff, upright wingback that she is certain she can get out of again without assistance.

Edward follows her after closing and locking the door behind them, but remains in the hallway as Mrs. Cope continues her stiff progress towards the living room. "Isabella, I'm here with Mrs. Cope. I'll be right there, sweetheart," he calls out towards the bedrooms.

To Mrs. Cope he says, "Would you mind sitting in the hallway by the door? I'm afraid I might startle her, and we don't want her running out of here under the false impression that her home's under attack."

Mrs. Cope pauses in her arduous journey and considers this, then nods her head, for once speechless as she surveys the entry area and hallway for an appropriate chair and, spying nothing, decides to spare her pride by attacking Edward's manners in not providing appropriate seating for a lady.

She turns as she inhales the breath to start a tirade, then lets it out in an uncharacteristic relieved sigh as she sees that energetic Mr. Cullen hauling her favorite chair from the living room to a spot in front of the door. He even returns for the side table, smiling as he places it in the hallway next to the chair and saying, "I have no idea how long this will take. Our Isabella seems capable of putting up a lengthy fight against her own best interests."

Mrs. Cope couldn't disagree, and for once didn't even want to since her comfort in whatever meantime was absolutely assured by what she has now decided is a satisfyingly well-mannered young man. Maybe even someone worthy of her favorite, Isabella. Maybe.

Edward correctly interprets her lack of commentary as satisfaction with the arrangements, and, after helping her into the chair in as gentlemanly a way as possible, starts down the hallway towards the bedrooms. "Isabella?" he calls out again, looking back once at the regal Mrs. Cope reigning over the entryway and throwing her a wink and a smile before disappearing around a corner.

"Isabella?" he repeats with knocking on the first of two open doors. There's no response, so he walks into the room slowly, assessing the situation as he moves.

He doesn't like what he sees. The bedcovers are in disarray, pillows are on the floor and there is a pair of shoes lying oddly as if they'd been kicked about or thrown—altogether the impression is one of struggle, and Edward feels an old panic start to grip him.

His next "Isabella," spoken as he quickly opens then closes the door to an attached bathroom—dark and empty—is urgent, and when there's no response he turns and speed-walks, almost runs, to the next open door in the hallway.

He dispenses with the knocking this time, simply calling, "Isabella!", his voice now gruff and almost angry-sounding with concern as he moves full-speed into a much larger and more elegant bedroom. This space shows no sign of struggle, but does have an open closet door. And as he recalls his earlier conversation with Rosalie, Edward starts to feel the panic ease.

Shaking his head, Edward walks quickly—for he won't really be at ease until he has visual confirmation of Isabella's safe presence in the apartment—to the open closet, feeling inside the closet door for a light switch. Finding one, he turns it on and sees an extensive walk-in filled with hanging clothes along all three sides with shoes neatly lined up along the bottom, though there's a gap at the back where long dresses have been shoved to one side and a couple of particularly-high heels are tipped over.

Heading to this spot, Edward pushes the clothes back a little further and peers behind them. Seeing nothing, he glances down…and finds Isabella curled up on the floor, fitted neatly into the corner with her head resting on what appears to be a winter coat, fast asleep.

Letting out the last of his fear in a large exhale, Edward laughs softly and crouches down next to her, staring at her peaceful body, her chest rising and falling in easy rhythm. Edward sees a lock of hair that's fallen into her face and reaches out a gentle hand to tuck it back behind her ear. As his fingers are ghosting along the edge of her cheek, he freezes when she stirs, tilting her face towards his hand as she murmurs, "Edward."

Snatching his hand back, Edward still stares at her, a little panic returning though for a different reason.

But the girl sleeps on, not opening her eyes to accuse him of anything but merely shifting her body and moving her hands farther under her head before saying, "Mmmm, Edward, don't go!"

Edward is all too happy to obey the sleeping edict of the girl, and stays perched on his heels a while longer, just watching her sleep. When the minutes pass and no more sleep-talking is heard, he finally decides to move lest he scare her when she wakes up and finds him staring down at her.

But first he stands and pulls a long wool coat off a nearby hanger, then leans in to Isabella's hiding place and carefully covers her with it. She smiles in her sleep and hums her warm satisfaction, one hand pulling the coat tightly underneath her chin as she tucks herself in.

Edward grins while watching her settle underneath the warmth he provided, then stands and moves to the closet entry, sitting down cross-legged in the middle of the open doorway. Shifting to lean against the door frame, he pulls out his phone and starts catching up on work emails, looking up every now and then to check for any sign of an awaking Isabella.

Ten minutes pass this way, then another five, until finally the silence is broken by the subdued ringtone of Edward's cell. Answering it quickly, Edward silently chides himself for not thinking to turn the ringer off.

"Hello?" he says softly, not needing to ask who it is this time as the Caller ID is quite clear.

"Don't 'Hello' me, Edward Cullen—what have you done with her?" Rosalie spits back.

"Rose, keep it down, all right? She's sleeping."

"Sleeping?" Rosalie shrills. "What is she doing sleeping with you?"

"She's not sleeping with me. She's just sleeping; in the closet, just like you said."

"And you couldn't call to tell me this?"

"I didn't want to disturb her." And more to the point, Edward had not spared a single thought for Rosalie since obtaining entry to the building.

Rosalie guessed this, pointing out the obvious: "You could have texted. Are you in the closet too?"

"I am."

"Hmph." Rosalie was excruciatingly torn between relief and concern that Edward Cullen seemed such a natural with Isabella. She was in the middle of additional due diligence on the topic of his overall trustworthiness and appropriateness as a suitor for her best friend and better half, but hadn't yet heard back from the step-brother she intended to grill and harangue and all-out bully until she got more satisfying answers to her concerns.

So Rosalie was playing for time, on her way home herself not that she was about to admit that to Edward Cullen, whom she half-hoped she would catch red-handed in some nefarious activity to simplify the decision-making. But only half.

Meanwhile, Edward was entirely engaged in the fascinating observation and pursuit of the increasingly attractive and satisfyingly surprising Miss Isabella Swan, not being one to get caught up on ethical vagaries or fine misgivings when his instincts are a go. He knows Rosalie poses the biggest potential barrier to him so far, and proceeds with his automatic plan to curry favor and gather intelligence from her until he has positioned himself so as to be able to cut her out. He doesn't mean anything nasty by it; it's just the way a savvy businessman proceeds.

"So are there any other Isabella hiding places I should know about before I get in any deeper?" he asks, half in co-conspirator joking, half in earnest.

Rosalie draws a big breath, decides to risk a little more trust. And to take another opportunity for testing. "Well…she does like bathtubs too."

"Bathtubs." There's no dullness or incredulity in his tone now; it's all humor and pleasure at the building evidence of Isabella's differentness from every other woman he's known. And definitely different from every woman he's known.

"Bathtubs," Rosalie confirms, her voice tired. She's giving up too much information, but there's something so inevitable-seeming about all of this she can't seem to help herself, so continues, " With pillows, no water."

"Got it." Edward's happy matter-of-factness continues, hiding in bathtubs being no more bizarre than hiding in closets, and, with his recent visual of Isabella curled up in the corner helping him imagine the scenario, probably just as cute. Maybe cuter.

As he speaks, Edward sees the hanging clothes in Isabella's corner—which he's been staring at during the whole conversation—swing a little, and hears the unmistakable sounds of coats shifting as Isabella sits up.

"Rose, I've got to go. She's waking up."

"Have her call me!"

"Will do." Though he feels no weight whatsoever at this thoughtless promise, and Rose knows it.

Edward disconnects the call without looking down just as a bewildered Bella sticks her head out from behind the dresses at the back, then quickly pulls it back in and sits down in a heap, collapsing in the shock of Edward Cullen's presence in her closet. Staring at her.

Well, Rose's closet really, but Bella can't help but think of it as hers too. It's such a nice, safe closet…or at least it used to be, before … Edward Cullen … was sitting in it. And staring at her.

At least he was smiling…or is he laughing at her? Her insides clench at that horrible thought.

Making the next thing she thinks be, of course, What am I going to do?

Stay tuned for the answer to that question and many more, though probably not the crucial question: Why is CL [me] such a stubborn freak (I say this with love knowing it's a culturally-sanctioned fact though not an everyday-helpful way to look at oneself I will admit) that she spends whatever free time she "has" or can illicitly manufacture writing this? No, we just have to take that condition as given, sort of like the Higgs boson before those fancy-pants at CERN proved its existence, or plain old gravity for those of us earth-bound and without expensive research facilities.

Besides, it's a much, much less satisfying question than: what are all the ways that a confident yet kind, powerful, dominant, desiring-of-submissive-Bella Edward can make overwhelmed yet loving, insecure, self-hating submissive Bella feel safe and loved and wanted? Yes, that's the question worth asking indeed. More answers to it coming up next week! Or next month, or next year…depends on the #$% dishes.

Mush, (that's Mwah misspelled and modified into something more codependent), liza