The Fires
Chapter One
Smoke has as many different scents as skin. Part of the pleasure
is not knowing what it will be—sulfurous or closer to incense or
airier and sweet as I imagine the smell of clouds. Nothing relieves
me so much as burning something old, watching it flicker and disappear
into air. Dresses dance as they go, lifted as if by some music.
A photograph flaps like a wing or a hand waving. Perfumes hiss,
then shatter, papers curl, plaster jewels curdle. Once I tried to burn
an old toy—a mechanical duck. When I'd found it at the bottom of
a drawer, it reminded me of the groggy sunrise Easter service and
the hunt for eggs in the graveyard. After I set the match to its tail,
it started walking pitifully on its metal legs, and it knocked around
the room singeing the walls and linoleum until it burned down to
its metal frame and folded with a crackle and small battery explosion.
It is less dangerous to burn things than to save them.
* * *
I'd poured myself six thimble shots of bourbon and walked the
edges of the bedroom touching the ... read full excerpt from: Don't Cry Now ebook
