Kaylee Donahue is dating Chihuahua Redux. Chihuahua Redux is Tate Donnelly. They met at UC Davis during Spring Break. Blue Luna caterpillars were everywhere, “so pretty!” Kaylee panicked when the caterpillars disappeared. It had to be climate change caused by diesel trucks. The sooty black smoke they blew under acceleration was killing the caterpillars. Tate was into her and she was into protesting diesel trucks, so he picked up a protest sign.
Their first date was in a school bus in handcuffs on its way to Yolo County Jail — YOLO. Tate fought with the County Sheriffs to defend her. She was protesting the disappearance of her favorite caterpillars when campus police tried to arrest her for trespass on UC Davis land. Kaylee resisted and Tate tried to intervene along with about thirty sympathetic protesters. The couple sat together on the County Sheriff bus taking them to jail. So romantic.
Tate was a poli‑sci major. His plan was to go to law school and practice until he could win an election. This destination, County Jail, challenged that plan. Kaylee was hot and that compensated for the hit on his reputation. She was worth it.
Hot Is Not Enough
The couple shared a seat in the bus taking them to County Jail. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t think it would go there,” said Kaylee. “It went there,” said Tate. “What are we going to do?”
Fun fact: jail doesn’t want us. And courts are busy enough that they’d rather not waste time and money on a trespass charge for someone with no priors. What was done was a fine, probation, and a stern “go and sin no more” from the judge.
Kaylee had a pregnancy scare with Tate. Visions of 3 a.m. diaper changes haunted their heads. They both graduated. Tate started law school. They were on an understood path. Kaylee’s worry about butterflies was cute but didn’t divert them.
Blue Luna Blues
Kaylee ingested the thought that Blue Luna butterflies disappeared because of climate change caused by diesels rolling coal. This made every diesel rolling any coal an existential threat to the environment and Blue Luna butterflies. So she put out a call to action on Pulse, and fellow travelers showed up at the Target in El Dorado Hills, CA.
The women had been standing across the empty southbound lanes for almost twenty minutes, holding their banner like it was a sacred text. Kaylee misted lavender water into the air every few seconds, as if aromatherapy could ward off diesel particulates. Delphinium stems lay in a neat pile at her feet, ready for symbolic deployment. The highway was silent, sun‑bleached, and closed by CalTrans half a mile back.
Then the sound hit them — a deep, insecure bellow of exhaust stacks and oversized tires. A lifted black truck burst past the “ROAD CLOSED” barricades like a toddler ignoring bedtime. Behind it, CHP cruisers followed with lights on, irritated.
Blue Luna Butterfly Frappe
On an early date Kaylee and Tate shared a Blue Luna Butterfly Frappe at Loam Café. It was basically a milkshake — blueberry juice, oat milk, wildflower honey, crushed ice, and a dusting of lavender powder. Fear not, no butterflies were in it. That was where they discovered their shared love of Blue Luna butterflies. And blueberries. And the idea that drinking something blue and ethical together meant they were on the same path.
F150 Truck You
Kaylee chirped, “This is it. This is the one killing the butterflies!” The others tightened their grip on the banner. Tate, who had been hovering near Kaylee all morning, stepped forward like he’d been waiting for a moment exactly this.
The truck slowed as it approached the line of women, revving in short, performative bursts. The driver leaned out the window — a soyboy in aviators, jaw clenched in the universal expression of someone desperate to be seen as dangerous. “Get out of the way!” he shouted, surging the truck forward.
Kaylee raised her spray bottle and unleashed a cloud of lavender mist. It drifted toward the truck, caught a breeze, and floated harmlessly into the median. Soyboy flipped off the girls and surged closer.
CHP boxed the truck in, sirens chirping. An officer stepped out, exasperated but calm. “I need your driver’s license, registration, and insurance. Stay in the vehicle.”
Tate hurled a handful of delphinium at the grill. The petals fluttered down like confetti at the world’s least effective parade. The women erupted in cheers, convinced they had just saved the Blue Luna butterflies from certain extinction.
And then, as the officer began writing the citation, one of them announced, “I’m starving. And I really need to pee.” Another was already on her phone. “Target’s right up the off‑ramp. Bathrooms and a Starbucks.”
That was all it took. One by one, the women drifted away toward the store in a loose, chatty line, leaving behind crushed delphinium, a faint lavender haze, and a very confused CHP officer.
無敵
Kaylee and her friends, followed by a team of riot‑control police, began walking toward the Target on Town Center Blvd. Inger and Tala had an equal need for caffeine and a bathroom. They were only ten minutes from their hotel. Neither could wait ten minutes plus check‑in time.
Inger geared down, signaled, and merged onto the Latrobe Road exit. They found the protesters on Town Center Blvd. Too many of the women were intent on making it to Target and a bathroom. So even though Muteki was one of those trucks, other needs became more important. As the protesters walked, Tate draped the banner over his shoulder. He felt a rush of envy and outrage as he watched the F250 rumble toward Target — a beautiful truck with Japanese calligraphy on the doors and sooty smoke rolling out the exhaust. Kaylee saw it too. Pee break first, though.
One hundred fifty women all wanting to use the bathroom. The line snaked from the cart corral through the entrance, past the Pharmacy, and deep into Household Essentials. After a few minutes of slow‑motion progress, they began spilling into the men’s room.
Pee Jam
Inger found a parking spot for Muteki. She and Tala got out, told the truck to lock up, and saw the line of protesters waiting to pee. The line for the men’s room was long but not as long as the line for the women’s room. So both of them got in line for the men’s room.
All was well until they got near the door. Some guy was playing door monitor. He was letting in the protesters and telling everyone else that the men’s room was closed. Tate didn’t count on this—there is no fury like a woman who needs to pee.
“Ma’am, the bathroom is closed.” “Are you serious? You just let a woman in.”
Tate looked at this woman and thought he could take her if it came to that, “The bathroom is closed.”
Inger glared at him. “Whatever.” She turned toward Tala. “Let’s go to the hotel. We can get what we need there. I see some good places to eat near the hotel.” “Sounds good,” said Tala.
As they walked away, Tate felt the moment slip sideways. He’d been trying to impress Kaylee all morning — the lavender mist, the delphinium toss, the heroic stance in front of the truck — and now he was reduced to bathroom bouncer for a protest that had already dissolved into retail. He tightened his grip on the banner, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it looked draped over his shoulder like a sash at a pageant no one was watching.
Wounded
He watched the blond and the Asian walk out of Target. He didn’t see them get out of the truck, so he had no idea who drove that machine. From where he stood, he couldn’t see the entrance, but he thought he heard the twelve‑valve rumble away. He felt it like a personal affront delivered in diesel smoke.
The truck’s owner had to be some knuckle‑dragging hick with cow dung under his fingernails. The kind of guy who thought deodorant was optional and believed torque was a personality. Probably wore wraparound sunglasses indoors. Probably said “bro” unironically. Definitely the type who’d rev at pedestrians and call it a political statement.
And that rude blond? Absolutely his girlfriend. Empty‑headed, into Bill Monroe, convinced daisy dukes were still a thing. The type who said “y’all” like punctuation and thought line‑dancing counted as culture. Someone who’d post mason‑jar quotes about “country girls” and mean it.
If Tate ever saw her again, he’d have to educate her on manners and ethics. She probably put heavy cream in percolated Maxwell House and called it breakfast. Probably ate those plate‑sized “country‑style” donuts and thought sugar was a food group. Someone who’d never heard of fair‑trade beans, never checked a label, never cared about the carbon footprint of dairy. A woman who’d laugh at oat milk and roll her eyes at climate policy.
He adjusted the banner on his shoulder, trying to stand straighter, trying to feel like the kind of man Kaylee believed he was. But the bruise was there — small, stupid, and stubborn. A tiny wound delivered by a stranger who hadn’t even noticed him.
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