Today I put petrol in the car; I know it's something you don't like doing so I did it before you run out.
I miss you.
I poured coffee in your mug, hazelnut with caramel just how you like it."
Friction inflamed the match. He held it under the small page; so vulnerable and willing, it instantly surrendered. The flames devoured it completely, it only a black lump on the wooden table now, the message was sent.
He puts the matches in his back pocket but keeps the tiny notepad close. He pulls the mugs towards him and brings one to his lips without taking his eyes off the other one; the one he calls hers.
The plastic clock on the wall announces the death of the next second . He sips again and stares inside the mug. It is the sound of thunder that tears him from his thoughts.
The wind blasts inside the room knocking down the china vase on the mantel; it was her favourite piece.
"Damn!" he says and rushes to shut the French windows. The wind is so strong it pushes him back so he tries again.
He kneels to pick up the broken pieces of the vase she loved so much when his eyes fall on a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. He smiles at it and waits for a moment before picking it up and placing it gently on the table.
He unfolds it and spreads it open with his hand.
"Please come." it said.
The man picks up a box from under the table and opens it. Inside, dozens of or tiny pieces of crumpled paper are piled neatly. All of them written in the same curvy handwriting, all replies to his
paperfire messages.
"I'll be home soon." said one
"Don't forget to fill up the car." said another.
"Don't wait up."
"See you soon."
He throws the last message in the box and pulls the notepad and pen in front of him.
"It won't be long now." he writes and pulls the matches out of his back pocket.
The paper burns with haste.
