Candles 1

"What the fuck was that?" Naked, he bolted upright in the bed, sheets clutched to his chest. His eyes were wide under a forehead drenched with sweat. There had been something like the sound of a gunshot followed by the tinkling of glass.

"I don't know," she replied irritably. "Does it really matter?" He had rolled off of her with the sheet and she now found herself completely exposed to the night breeze blowing through the bedroom window.

Shadows of the two lovers danced and frolicked on the bedroom walls. She had strategically placed candles throughout the room. The scent of the melting cinnamon wax was almost overpowering. She felt intoxicated with the heady aroma and dizzy from the pace of the sex they'd been having before the explosion.

Contemplating him, he looked like nothing so much as a terrified little boy. It was enlightening to her. He'd always put on such a tough act when they'd flirted at the bar where she served cocktails. Now, he looked as if he might wet the bed.

"Can you see what it is?" he asked her. The sweat on his face was quickly cooling and he began shivering. More and more, she found herself disgusted with him.

She cast her eyes around the room. The explosion had definitely been nearby. The lace curtains fluttered in the breeze, moonlight streaming through the window. The night was clear and bright enough that she could quickly see the window was intact.

"Fuck!" she said, as her eyes found the source. "That was part of a set!"

"What?" he asked.

"I had a matched set of crystal candle holders. The candle must have been too damned hot. Shit!"

He breathed an audible sigh of relief as she rose from the bed, moving quickly to the other candles in glass. She quickly snuffed the candles on her side of the bed.

"Help me out, would you?" she asked. Dutifully, he rose from the bed and began blowing out candles.

As she blew out the last of the candles by the foot of the bed, she heard another explosion nearer to the headboard followed quickly by a high-pitched scream. Looking that way, she saw him dancing about the room in evident pain, a tiny shard of glass embedded dead center in his left buttock.

She laughed a laugh that came from deep in her abdomen, a laugh like she hadn't had in years. He continued to hop around cursing until the sheet entangled his legs and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Her laughter grew louder and more uncontrollable. She felt a trickle of urine starting down her thigh. From under the sheet came dire threats to her well-being and every one of the seven words you can't say on network television, often in truly interesting combinations.

She gave in completely to her laughter, collapsing to the floor herself, letting tears trickle past her nose, completely losing control of her bladder. When he finally tore free of the sheet, he stampeded past her to the bathroom. The cursing continued as he presumably extracted the piece of glass from his cheek.

Finally, he was quiet and her laughter subsided. Time passed. She sat on the floor, waiting for him to emerge from the bathroom. She had no idea how she'd respond. After long minutes, she heard the scraping of wood against wood from behind the door, and she knew that he'd crawled out the window.