Bright blue wings trapped under a leather sandal, attatched to a foot with garish red nail polish. A bovine woman with three, four offspring, one in a stroller. The beautiful things break and the ugly things are compelled to spill their disease anywhere they see fit.
I am twelve again and gaping at the butterfly struggling against the sandal, I am twelve again and when I finally muster the courage to convey that she is crushing the most perfect creature I have ever seen, she moves her foot and says, "Oops."
Oops.
There are a lot of acceptable responses to senselessly destroying beauty, but I do not remember "oops" as being one of them.