Set Fire To The Rain

My Flame

I've never once dreamed of cheating on my husband, but in a way, this felt like it.

I didn't move from the sofa, curled up with a blanket after dozing off waiting for Noe to get out the shower.

I was half-asleep when Noe leaned over me on the sofa on his way out.

"I'm heading down to the lake now. You sure you don't wanna come with me?"

"Sorry, babe, I'm dead tired. I didn't sleep at all last night," I yawned through that statement. "Catch you down there later maybe?"

It wasn't completely a lie.

I really was exhausted, having spent all night tossing and turning in bed, and I really had every intention of joining Noe for the second half of our canoeing lesson.

But catching up on sleep was the last thing on my mind.

"You had a rough night," Noe was always so cool and understanding about things, and I hated being desperate enough to lie to him like this. "I'm gonna miss you, of course, but I'll let you get your beauty rest." His lips lingered against my hair as he kissed my brow. "Sweet dreams, ok? I'll come back and check in on you later."

He waited there a moment like that, taking his time gazing down at me as I 'slept', before walking out of our cabin with his canoeing gear to meet our instructor alone.

Once I was sure he wasn't coming back, I sat up from the sofa and unzipped my duffle bag on the floor, and the mini 40 pack of Diamond Strike matches I'd hidden easily in a secret inside pocket next to my shampoo and body wash.

Dragging a matchhead along the scratchy flint edge, I held my breath for the hiss as it ripped across the box, and then that satisfying fwoosh.

The exploding flare-up of the phosphor, waxy tip fizzing like a firecracker. Just like the fuzzy crackling of champagne when you pour the first glass.

My stomach fluttered.

The hazy ribbons of white curling smoke becoming my next deep breath.

I watched lovelorn as the firecracker tip climaxed and gradually died down to a single burning torch of gold and sapphire ombré. The pure hot sapphire burning cleanly down the wood matchstick in a dance of simmering heat molecules in perfect combustion.

The flame crawling down, down, down...until 60 seconds later, I felt a searing pain against my fingertips.

I gently blew the flame out.

And after I did, the world was ruefully colder.

Darker.

I never could sit with that feeling for long, right after the match goes out.

So, I lit another one.

Fwoosh.

Fizz.

Crackle.

Pain.

Over and over and over again.

Until 60 seconds turned into 40 minutes, and 40 spent matches against my baby blue satin Victoria's Secret night shorts.

And after burning through an entire matchbox rather than spending the morning with my husband, I instantly felt disgusted with myself.

What am I doing here? I shouldn't be here. I should be with Noe.

Ignoring the gnawing aches of first degree burns on my fingertips, I quickly stuffed all my used matches back into the matchbox, orderly and with the burnt tips all facing the same direction, as if the box was brand new again.