Matchstick

An ode to the flames discarded in the snow. Happy reading! <3

Matchstick

---

The wind shudders against me, snuffing out the flame. Another blackened matchstick drops at my feet. I curse, but the sound is quickly swallowed by the roar of the cold. Everything I do seems to be stunted by its invisible hand.

The senses in my nose have been chewed off by winters teeth, my cheeks, and fingers close to the same fate.

My chosen fate, thanks to my lack of thinking before storming out here. Now I’m playing a game of chicken between my pride and my common sense.

The cigarette is long since too damp to light, yet I prevail with some manic kind of will. I must look like an idiot with a death wish–standing out here alone, pummelled by ice and snow. But I’m long past keeping up appearances. I need this cigarette. I deserve this cigarette.

Light pours out from the fogged windows, the diner wall pulsing with music, laughter, and clinking glasses. My drink had been abandoned at the bar. I’d gone through the usual procedure: stirring the ice cubes till they melted, guarding the seat beside me with my purse. Somewhere between the pitying glances from the bartender and a group of women asking if I was all right, the humiliation had become too much to bear. He wasn’t going to show.

An amber street lamp casts sprawling shadows across the desolate road, swaying with the wind, like long claws trying to grab my ankles. I strike my fifth match; it glows and dies before I can blink.

“Goddamn it,” I hiss.

As I fumble for another, my stiff hands lose hold of the box. The remaining matches scatter across the snow.

My arms stay suspended in the air; I’m too numb, too furious, too defeated to muster a reaction. I stare at the matches: their little imprints in the white look like bodies from a birds-eye view. Corpses, left to freeze.

If I’m not careful, I’ll end up like that. Some blue-lipped carcass, puckered veins against parchment thin skin, frostbitten to anonymity. Just as unmemorable as a matchstick lost to the snow.

My floral skirts flutter from underneath my coat. Abruptly, my eyes start to prickle. The austere snow glares, scrutinizing me, whittling me to the bone, the matches blurring into blots of black ink. A tear escapes. I sniff, hastily wiping it from my cheek before it freezes there.

The wind reels back. In the silence, it hits me- like a draft creeping up my nape in a warm room. I am a woman, alone, out in the cold, with no one to call her back inside.

The tears drip off my chin like a leaky tap. I fist the cigarette, crushing it with all my might to send the sorrow elsewhere. But nothing quells it. Salt collects and freezes at the corners of my mouth. I quake like some scared animal: knees bent, tail between my legs, whimpers curdling in my throat.

The wind picks up again. I let its roar engulf me, let the ice pelter my skin and melt against my burning cheeks. Blood hammers against my temples. The taste of tears is thick on my tongue. I bite down my knuckles to quiet myself, incisors digging to the bone. I’ve felt enough shame tonight; I don’t need to top it all off with me weeping like a baby.

But I can’t stop. And as the tears pour, I mouth a silent prayer to the snow:

Have mercy on me.

The door swings open.

“Sorry–mind if I join?”

A man in a tall, gray coat steps out from the light, flakes of snow immediately clinging to his hair. His glasses are clouded, obscuring his eyes. My mind takes a moment to shift gears.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” I say. My voice squeaks like plastic.

I shuffle to make room, before dropping my gaze, trying to hide the bloodshot whites of my eyes. God. Could this night get any worse?

The strike of a match catches my attention, and I watch with bewilderment as he manages to coax the flame to life. He lifts the fire to the cigarette, lights it, then offers it to the wind for devouring.

Lucky bastard, I think.

The light reveals my ruddy, wet cheeks. The man raises his eyebrows, taking a drag.

“Tough night?” he asks, smoke erupting from his mouth.

I watch the smoke curl. “Tough night.”

The man studies me, darting over the evidence: my tobacco stained palm, the scattered matches, my puffy face. I sniff like a little child, avoiding his eyes.

“I’m Soren.” he says finally, extending a hand for me to shake.

I take his hand rigidly, then relax.

“Lola.”

“Lola.” Soren echoes, flashing a crooked smile. “Who are you escaping from?”

“No one.” I shift at the awkward lie. “Or, the lack of someone.”

He kisses his teeth. “We might be running from the same thing.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You were stood up?”

Soren takes a long drag. “Second time this month.”

I scoff. “Try your third.”

We watch the snow swirl around our ankles. Tears stand in my eyes; I stare up at the thin strip of awning to tip them back.

“I’m sorry.” He says, peeling off his glasses to wipe them with a handkerchief.

I blink. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to expect from a stranger, but it certainly isn’t this.

“I’m fine.” I stammer.

His eyes are the colour of coffee. They are creased at the edges, permanently etched with the beginnings of a smile.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, but it’s going to be all right. Sometimes you gotta weather the cold to appreciate the good months.”

My heart thuds like a kick drum, mouth parted. To my relief, Soren clears his throat.

“Would you like me to light one for you?” He asks, gesturing to his cigarette. Soren’s gaze drops to the littered matchsticks on the ground. “It seems you didn’t have much luck yourself.”

The remark isn’t remotely funny, but I find myself laughing into the back of my hand.

“Yes, thank you.”

He grins at me again. My face warms before he even lights the match.

“Here,” Soren passes me a smoke. I place it between my lips. He rips the match, holding me still with his gaze as he brings it to the cigarette, gloved hand cupped around flame. The smoke fills my lungs like the first inhale after coming up for air.

“Better?” Soren asks, voice barely a whisper.

Ash flickers off the butt, glowing with fresh embers. They drift like yellow stars against the blue dark.

I nod. “Much.”

We stay like that a while, watching the wind take the smoke and bend it to its will.

Once we’re properly shivering I ask:

“Do you want to go back in?”

He buries his nose into his collar. “No, not really. The cold is quite nice.”

I snicker. “Are you sure? You seem a little chilly there.”

Not even his coat can muffle the clacks of his chattering teeth. “You’re right. This cold is horrid.”

As he turns to head back in, something tugs at me, a fear and a curiosity beating in tandem.

“Well, how about we warm up a bit with a drink?” I blurt out.

The cigarette perched between his teeth burns like a guiding flare; I can feel the heat of its reflection in my eyes.

“I’d love that.” He beams, extending an elbow for me to take.

We stumble over the ice, carefully making our way back inside. Tracking wet footprints over the floors, Soren begins to tell me about his date, how it was set up by his mother, and how he’s sure that the person never existed in the first place.

The bar glitters, its hearth crackling like laughter. The abandoned drink has long been cleared.