candlelight

My dreams of her are always pleasant, and seem to snuggle up for entire nights now.

This last one started in a neighbourhood that vaguely resembled St. Leonard. Except that all the triplexes, normally stacked neatly like faceless dominoes, were now separated by vast peaks and canyons. Like a row of broken teeth set along a decaying gum line. A street fighter's smile. Perhaps the unsuspecting mouth of a long dormant volcano. We were up in the clouds. But the plush pillows floating above us were pregnant not with rainwater, but fire. You only really noticed when their hundreds of thousands of soft blue tongues hit the ground, with the dead calm of a sneaky December snowfall carpeting the cold pavement before dawn. And every little fire-flake hissed where it landed. A satisfying sound. The soothing sizzle and swoosh of flame on damp earth.

I knew I had reached her house. That she was home alone. I also knew that we did not know each other very well - not very well at all. She answered the door before I could bring myself to knock and flashed an awkward come-in smile. I followed, head down. I don’t remember exactly what we spoke about. Her dad’s favourite card games, maybe. My dancing? I stood in the hall while our conversation carried her, like a deep river current, from room to room. At times it swallowed her completely. Whenever she resurfaced, I'd smile stupidly. Like I was meeting her again for the first time.

Time inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly. Years passed through our words. And when we went back out front to watch the fire clouds. I suddenly wanted nothing more than for the two of them, my dear friends, to finally meet her. They had been waiting patiently. Their matching eyes squinted with approval, as the candlelight night continued to rain down around us.