He struck a match. He held it for a moment. He regarded it with a quiet intensity. I wonder how much of that I’ve created, or rather my fear has created. Can someone actually see a ‘quiet intensity’ in just a pair of sunglasses and a lit match?
With him, you can. Unless, you were unaware of-
“..start…” he says, lighting a cigarette. The way he says things, concise but disjointed, it has to be heard to believed.
“How many times do I have-”
It’s a sudden movement but smooth, a flick of the wrist to drop the match into the ashtray, and I shut up.
“..again..”, he says and a
***
He turned to me, empty face, holding out his hand.
“Ashes, that is all I hold in my hands…” He looked at his blackened fingers. He lowered his arm and stood silent. He seemed not to be breathing. “…burnt things.”
***