Rekindling a Dying Flame

The fire in the hearth dwindled down, but neither of us had the initiative to add another log. I sat in my chair, and she lounged on the couch near the dying fire for warmth; warmth which she sorely lacked, and seemed unable to create on her own anymore, despite how she always seemed warm when I first met her. Now her hands were always cold. Maybe it was because she never had them tucked away in her pockets, like little secrets, anymore.

“I’m going to bed now.” She stood up and murmured. She didn’t stretch, or even look at me; there was nothing to glean from her body language or voice, so quiet it was almost inaudible.

She left, and the room sighed, louder than she had spoken, in her wake.

It had been like this for while now; this dreadful stagnation that neither of us would admit to. It was a Saturday night and she’d gone to bed before ten. I could remember a time when on a night like this we’d be out having fun, dancing or watching a movie, or even just in, talking over coffee or cuddling after sex in front of a huge blazing fire. That time was only a year ago; yet, I can’t pinpoint when it turned into this.

The fire was embers only now, glowing softly. I was alone to my thoughts, perhaps more dangerous than the silence with her. How had it turned to this? She said she loved me, almost every day, but it had become an automatic thing, as normal a habit as brushing ones teeth…. you noticed it only if you didn’t do it.

That was it really. It was not in what I did or what she did, it was in what we didn’t do. We didn’t play anymore; we didn’t groom one another, or talk deep. We never argued; we never had, me being a peacekeeper and her being compliant and passive by nature. We rarely ever had sex, and when we did it was only to relieve carnal compulsions rather than to show any real affection for one another.

I think I love her still, but it feels like I’ve forgotten how or why. I know she has a gorgeous smile, but she hasn’t smiled genuinely in a short forever.

There’s no spark, but I still don’t want to let her go. I guess it could be for comfort, but I don’t think so. There are still things I’ve yet to know about her; little peculiarities. Why does she stir her coffee counterclockwise, and always insist that the window be open but the door closed? Where does her love of butterflies come from? What was it like where she grew up? Were there butterflies there? She has been relatively silent on that subject, her childhood, and though I realize some of it was painful and so I do not pry, sometimes she’ll recall a moment with such spontaneity and fondness that I think that could not have been so bad. I suppose, for her, they’re bittersweet memories. That’s what I’m left with now, remembering our early days together, wishing I could recapture them.

Soon the hearth is cold. I don’t want to go to bed, go to lie next to her sleeping form that I can’t touch, but I don’t want to stay here either, next to a dead fire. I shiver, and wonder if it’s the cold.

How does one rekindle a dying flame?

How does one find back something lost when it may or may not exist anymore and it belongs to another?

I felt myself nodding off, slowly, in my chair in front of the fire. I allowed it, willed it to happen even. Sleep was a welcome respite from these churning thoughts, this sense of helplessness. At least while sleeping I could feel like I was doing something about it.

I woke up early to the sound of the early spring rain on our cabin’s tin roof, a sudden downpour of it. There was a bit of warmth in the air, refreshing after the frigid winter. I went outside, alone, watching the rain pour off the roof above our porch in a small waterfall. The sun did beautiful things with the rain, a play of water and light that delighted like a fairy dance. My breath came in puffs before me, and I suddenly wished I had a jacket. Still, since I would have a hot shower soon, I thought I would enjoy this warm rain. I stepped out into downpour, raising my head up to drink it down.

We would start anew, alone or together. I didn’t really care which, so long as this horrible feeling, this sick turning and twisting in my gut and heaviness of my limbs, I had now would end. I needed renewal, needed this rain, whether it was with her or alone, in our cabin or elsewhere. It was a beautiful home we’d made for ourselves, comfortable and personal. Every piece of furniture, every little decoration, every dish in the cupboard, had some sort of meaning to me. But I would leave it all if I had to.

It was cold, but marvelous. I shivered, and then quite suddenly a jacket was put over my shoulders, and I turned to face her. She was in her pyjamas, rubber boots and trench coat, brown eyes wide like a startled deer, wet hair plastered to her face. I gazed back at her, watching her as if I was looking at a stranger.

I did not touch her; though I felt like I wanted too tuck those wet, dark, locks behind her ear. I spoke, my voice foreign yet mine, to my ears, like the words came straight from the heart, “I need something new…. I just can’t live like this anymore. How about you?”

She bit her lip prettily, eyes darting down to the muddy ground where the first crocuses were pressing up to the sun. “I… I’m ready for a change too.”

Then she raised her eyes to meet mine, dawn reflected in them, and it was as if I was meeting a totally new person and I was left wondering when had she changed, when had the embers been turned and the fire relit?

Fin.