It started and ended with a candle. If foresight had told me you’d burn down the house on my thirty-first birthday, would I have fallen for you that fateful night at Stella’s Steakhouse and Grill?

Just the fact that we ever got together was a miracle. My date–Lester? Leonard? I can never remember his name–and I were sitting by the window and you and whats-her-name were across the aisle. All through dinner I admired your profile in the candlelight. When you weren’t turning to gawk at me, that is. I recall feeling so sorry for her. She noticed the attraction between us. Lestard was oblivious.

It wasn’t until later that night as we walked along the boardwalk in the moonlight, hand-in-hand, that you told me you’d been on a blind date. I lied. The fact that I was engaged to a guy whose name escapes me tells me even now that you and I were meant to be. For whatever reason.

Author’s note: Until October the 31st, I’m going to try to use this space to create possible beginnings for my 2016 NaNoWriMo project. Feedback is welcome.

9 thoughts on “Fire

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