Smells so sticky.
Every nerve in his hand buzzing with energy.
Hours compacted into seconds o’ rush.
He immediately stopped when he heard thumping footsteps outside, & then the door creak open.
“¿Would you take out the trash?”
The door shuts. The footsteps dissipate.
He clicks his lighter ’gain & eases its luscious flame toward his palm, feeling its warmth gradually climb.
“No privacy,” he muttered.