Orange Sunday

8

It is a Thursday, though I'm not sure if it still is; with the way time is passing, it could be early Friday morning already.

The fire burns my face, making my skin feel stretched tight and dried out. His arms are around me, his chest pressed against my back. In the light of the campfire, I can see every white scar on his tanned knuckles.

I asked him, once, about them. "Most of them are from when I was little. I always thought conveyor belts were the coolest thing; I tried to stop them with my hands every time I went to the store. The clerks hated me. Then, this one time my mom was running on her treadmill, and I tried to stop it," he'd said, a sly smile on his face. "I wasn't the brightest kid."

The flames dance in front of me. When he leans forward to rest his chin on my shoulder, if I turn just a bit to my left, I can see them reflected in his eyes.

I try to ignore the green in their depths; I try not to think of her.

The wood snaps and cracks as it burns. Sparks dance into the night sky, like little suns floating above our heads.

I'm not sure how many people are here; I can see about ten, but there are more in the shadows, dancing to nothing with cups in their hands.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, his lips sticking to my hair. He, for once, is sober.

I think of the feeling of my bed after a long day. I think of the way my mother used to hug me when I was little, before I caught up to her in height. I think of the way she used to hold me when I cried, squeezing me and shaking her hips side to side. I think of her laughter. I think of the sparks landing in the desert around us, setting it ablaze, and taking me with it. I think of my mother, set ablaze, the body that made me reduced to ash.

I think of the small fire in my chest, warming my body, slowly burning me from the inside out. I think of how sometimes it roars and chars my insides, crawls its way up my throat and bursts out of my mouth.

I meet his eyes and say, "Nothing at all."