It had been my turn to pick the movie
She spent most of the film on her phone
Then the power went out
She pulled the blanket off her lap
and I heard her rummaging in the kitchen
Soon, her assorted assemblage
of scented candles collectively burned
throughout the tiny apartment
The candle glow improved the ambiance
and everything looked less worn and dirty
The candle scents intermingled in the room
Bakery Air mixed with Mango Madness
Santa’s Pipe amalgamated with Bahama Breeze
The smell was overpowering
My head innards began to protest
pushing out against my skull
I listened to the wicks’ hiss as they burned
and I watched her thumb her phone
The blue glow of the screen
lit the underside of her face
For some reason, it was at that moment
that I knew this relationship
wasn’t going to work
Later that night
I laid next to her
and stared at the ceiling
The scent of the extinguished candles
lingered in the dark
Jason Fisk lives and writes in the suburbs of Chicago. He has worked in a psychiatric unit, labored in a cabinet factory, and mixed cement for a bricklayer. He was born in Ohio, raised in Minnesota, and has spent the last 25 years in the Chicago area. www.jasonfisk.com
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