I hate candles.

I hate the way the flame flickers and I hate how it just never seems to just go out. It's always taunting me, growing small at first and waiting for a gust of wind to blow it all out to ashes. But as my breath reaches the flame, it sparks into this huge whirlwind of light and smoke.

I hate that candles can light up a whole room, with just one, well lit match. It was because of him that made me hate the glow of the iridescent light.








I watched the two dance, like fire to a flame, like the flame and wax, melding together, like candles, like candles, dancing everywhere. Step back, step back, step forward, step forward. The two, so in tune with each other, synchronized, and beautiful, the way candles were supposed to be. And the image of the light burned into me and my eyeballs were permanently fixed on the flame.

Turning away, I felt the heat rise and the dancing still continued, I didn't even need to look.








Forty-three days later I lit the candles that were sent to me through UPS Expressmail. I signed for them and stared at the scratchy, brown box. A man in white tube socks and brown polyester shorts stared at me. I shut the door and let myself sink to the floor. When the lights went out that night, I opened the box. Tearing off the tape, my hands savagely reached inside.

Of course.

I looked for matches. I reached inside a drawer and pulled out a few boxes. Some of them read 'Hilton hotel', 'Four Seasons', and 'Motel Six". These were my guilty pleasures - stealing matches like candy from the grocery store. In haste, I had grabbed about four matchboxes whenever I entered a hotel or restaurant. I was never sure why, because I never used matches. I was afraid of fire.

I'm sure he knew why. Hell, I'm sure you know why.

I lit them and watched the two dance, like the forty-some nights ago. They moved together, so rapidly, so gracefully, so beautifully, so undisturbed and uninhibited. I tried to throw him a sideways glance, but he didn't acknowledge me. He just danced, like fire, like flame, so beautiful, so beautiful.

And here we were, with candles, and light, and fire, but no flame. With dancing and movement, but sitting and pining as well. And here we are, so topsy turvy and wonderful in a pool of my own unshed tears and the fire that I hated.

I hate dancing.

I hate dancing alone.

And I hate candles.

I hate candles.