A match. Soft, brown, and smooth, rough red tip. All those times you tried to light it, until, finally, a soft yellow light and a warm smell appeared with a click, that almost sounded like the way I'd fastened my seatbelt in your car this morning.
And through the hidden fear of burning your fingertips, you brought the match to the wax slab of pale green candle that was supposed to smell like a whole forest, but really just smelled of a single pine, like the one we slept under with our sleeping bags, crinkled like paper.
You shook the match, flicking your wrist with the kind of vigor that seemed a though you thought the candle would bite you. And where the warm yellow light once was, only a dull grey smoke remained, drifting toward the ceiling.
The shadows in the room shifted when the candle flickered and it reminded me of the campfire from that night before the orange crawled back into the logs until it replaced itself with ash. I could hear the sound of crackling plastic as you tossed the empty match box into the trash can in the corner, and I wondered if you threw the match box away because you would rather have an excuse to use a lighter next time. And I wondered why people still use matches when they make lighters now, and lighters are much safer and faster. Maybe some people just like the little boxes of matches like the one you just threw away. Maybe some people just like the soft yellow light of a lit match. And maybe some people just aren't afraid of burning.