August 7, 2020

Letting the Fire Die and the Smoke Rise

posted on: Wednesday February 10, 2010

Conor Leary ’11/Asst. Portfolio Editor

She thought she could be stronger. She told herself that she needed this, that she needed to be sitting across from him on Valentine’s Day, under just the right amount of ambiance. She needed the quaint little restaurant, of Spanish or Italian character, and the bottle of wine in between them. She needed it cold, but warming slowly, sitting a little too near a candle glowing in between them. It was something that was supposed to represent their passion, their relationship, and the temperature of his skin when she needed him to warm her. But she felt cold. And the candle kept blowing out.It wavered from time to time. When he talked. When he laughed. When he tucked his napkin over his lap or when he waved the waiter over. He ordered her meal for her and had chosen the perfect wine for the night before the server could offer him the wine list. She watched the candle when his gestures cast it out. She watched gray smoke replace the orange spark and examined how much the wick had been burned and subsequently bent. It was afflicted with ash and bowing, holding its center as if wallowing in the pain of being set on fire.

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