"'It's the --' What?" Jess stomps after him, following his attention to the white winged moth. It doesn't acknowledge her, nor do any of the others as she takes in the breadth of the infestation for the first time. Like frost on a window, they speckle her wall and line the ceiling. There are scores more at rest than there are fluttering about her candles. That's no reason not to have noticed them. She can't tell how long they've been there, unable to remember if they swarmed in overnight or accumulated gradually.

It's kind of gross, if nothing else, and she's not buying that they're the cause but there's no harm in eliminating the possibility. Letting him do whatever he's going to do to make tea happen in her kitchen, she crosses to the couch. Jess blows out the nearby candles, relying on the stove for light, and opens the windows as wide as they'll go. Then the door. Back to the couch, she grabs up a blanket and starts to wave off clutters of moths above the window sill.

"Can't believe," she mutters between swings of her arms, "I ever thought these things," one zooms blindly into her cheek, "were cute."