Master o’ Inflammation

Courtesy the National Gallery of Art. Public domain.

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?”

“Yes, mother.”

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.


Fire, palm, thrill