I stand before my best friend’s sink. We’re 12 and mischievous. She clutches her mother’s pink lighter in one hand; an old grocery list in the other. Her finger flicks down the thumb-wheel sending sparks of blue shooting from inside the windscreen where the wick resides.
The second roll casts a small glowing flame toward the paper in her hand. The flames flicker. Anxious- as if they know they’re about to consume something, like eager children awaiting candy on Halloween. The meeting of the two is intense. Hot. Ripples of flames stretch upward toward her fingers clutching the paper. The heat becomes too much and it falls from her grasp into the sink below.
Flames scream as they meet the water droplets dripping from the faucet into the drain. Plink. Horrific, silent pleas. Plink. Grasping for more. Plink. Sparks spewing, clutching at nothing. The last breath is gone-nothing but black soot remains entangled with the pungent smell of scorched paper. If only I had my camera then. “Let’s do it again,” she smiles.
We find old coupons scattered on the kitchen table, cut them up and watch the shredded sheets of savings shrivel into black ash. Her mother enters the kitchen in search of her lighter and we freeze. We’re caught: ash stuffed beneath our nails, our skin colored gray and the scent of smoky remains swiveling in the kitchen.