Every time she worked hard, she treated herself. And she did work hard often, so her candle collection could be by any means considered decent. She could not be sure if there was a time when she had not liked them - the candles. They were proudly arranged on the shelves, beside the sky blue cotton curtains, scattered on the mantelpiece, the dining table, the damp bathroom stand, the old white fridge… everywhere.
But she could not get herself to light the unique candles. She did not want to, because she would never be able to again. And those simple ones were too simple to be bothered with. Also, who knew ? Accidents happen anywhere. Everywhere. Undesirable consequences of the simple act of lighting a candle was probably the last thing she wanted. What if she burned her house down?
So all she did was all except the very purpose the candle was molded for. The long, black waxy ones and the short, azure gelatinous ones. There were the traditional ones and the exotic ones with the gentle whiff of the oceans. She had never been to an ocean.
She did know that the true beauty and scent of her obsession could only bloom and unfurl once set on fire – slowly melt its way to death as the wick burns itself down. If she ever did light them, golden, soothing light would have poured out of her little cabin windows in the twilight.
As she stood, her gaze gliding on the miniature pillars and domes of her desire, she thought. Here was the one she was gifted on her fourteenth birthday by her friend. Her friend had called her every now and then, but never to get an answer. Everyone she talked to wished ( and told her the same ) that she should be a little more open. A little more human than she’d like to admit she was. A tiny bit more friendly than she was willing to show. She wanted to, they didn’t know this, but she simply couldn’t. Perhaps, she thought, she should light a candle to lighten herself up. Perhaps at this moment, candle would vaporize her despair as it vaporized itself.