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Master o’ Inflammation

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.

Originally Created:

2014 January 25

Prompt:

Fire, palm, thrill

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