The freshly lit flame flickers to and fro, dancing in the darkness, stirred by a soft breath. The newborn flame also breathes, taking in oxygen and gnawing vigorously at its white umbilical wick. I hold my breath and stare into the flame, entranced. It stands tall and proud, reaching resolutely for the sky.
* * *
Clouds chose to shroud the sky that week so long ago, hiding the warm sun. The rain simply would not stop. The playground looked as if all the color had been drained out of it, leaving only somber shades of gray. Rain bombarded the puddles forming dimpled mirrors reflecting a distorted reality in which the magnificent play-structure palace became a blurred blob of brown. Yet, despite all this gloom she was still in high spirits, stomping through the puddles in her bright red rain boots. She ran up to me where I stood sullenly under the overhang of the roof. Her eyes gleamed in defiance of my melancholy mood as she grabbed my hand and dragged me into the rain to play.
* * *
I wonder when it was that our play became serious? Ah, those were the days. But why did she choose to follow the path that she did? She was always so innocent, so full of life. A solitary tear trickles down my face as I remember that sad day that we each went our own way. The candle’s flame is momentarily flattened by a gust of moist wind. Sitting here with my back turned indifferently towards the door I cannot tell who has entered the café, nor do I care, for my mind is not here. It is walking down the memory of a city street.
* * *
I despised cities, and this one was no exception. The day was overcast, drab, and gray. I gave a tug at the stifling tie that clung to my neck. Though it had not yet begun to rain, I could smell the storm hanging in the filthy air.
I would not have recognized her had our eyes failed to meet. She was standing there on the street corner in what should not have passed for a red dress. It had only been five years since we graduated but she looked like it had been at least ten. Though her body was worn her ebony eyes still shone with her rebellious attitude. I had been walking briskly, head down, grasping my briefcase with white knuckles, wishing that I wasn’t there. I don’t know what made me look up to see her. Fate I suppose.
* * *
The sharp click of heels draws me back into reality. The flame has eaten a large wax-filled crater in the candle. The clicking circles my table and she sits down opposite me. She wears an ageless mask of makeup; skin powdered pure white, eyebrows plucked and re-drawn in as thin black lines, lips unnaturally red, and yet despite all that her dark eyes have not lost their timeless untamed beauty.
The candle's fading flame still illuminates her face, though it is half-drowned in its own wax.