Flames

A girl's experience in a world where love and passion are represented by flames

She couldn't exactly remember the last time anyone had made her feel like this. Couldn't recall it. All she knew was that it had been a very long time ago - too long.

When he smiled at her she felt a flicker in the pit of her stomach, like gas had been sparked, and a tiny flame had been birthed. It began to warm her. He noticed that she would mirror his smile with one of her own. Beaming - a true smile. She told him that when he smiled, her heart smiled back. He could not see, so she wore it on her face. Instinctively, he would raise a hand and go on to stroke it;  Delicate,  And her stomach would lurch. As if the butterflies that live and breathe down there, had hit her tiny flame clumsily. Drunken ecstasy.

As his hand and her face connected, it seemed that his own flames already lit his furnace. As if his fire was well and truly alive, warmth radiating through him, to her. He told her to close her eyes and she did. He told her she was beautiful, as he always did, and she lay still, he repeated it, and again, she did not move. She knew what was to come.

When she felt his lips cushion her own, her flame was doused with something flammable. She felt it leak out of her heart, and trickle down through her veins, her flame combusting upon impact. The warmth was overwhelming. She had been charged. Now, every touch, every kiss, everytime their bodies interlocked, there was nothing but harmony. Every movement they made, perfectly in synch, like a dance, rehearsed.

The next morning she awoke, still warm, him gone. She climbed out of bed and walked over to her mirror, as you do, as we all do, to check up upon the image of herself, the last image she had left him with, the image imprinted, the one he would hold until they met again. It was there that she noticed it.

Beneath her T-shirt, there was a feint glow. Slowly, she raised the fabric, that in the heat of summer, clung to her skin, and there, just below her navel, a faint aura shone. It was as if someone trapped in there had his torch pressed against her skin. As she cradled and rubbed her stomach, the way a woman expecting a child would, she thought of the couples down in the streets below. How day by day, she would pass reds and greens, oranges and blues and yellows and purples; complenetary colours, all radiating from within. She had often wondered where she fitted on this colour wheel. Whe she would acquire her own glow. Now, albeit a feint one, a ligh that would need to learn to shine brighter with time, she was a blue, and it could only mean that he was an orange.

Author's Note

Just a bit of experimental jotting