James had laughed then kissed me in that stranger’s driveway which melted my resolve like candle wax. “Think of the puzzles!” James replied, and I smiled. I rose first the next morning and, forgetting about the new table, slammed my shin into its edge and crumpled to the floor. From that low angle, I noticed a hidden drawer. Inside was a small, dusty, wrapped shoebox. Unsure what I was hoping for, maybe a salve for my fresh injury, I tore the tattered paper and opened the lid to reveal a black candle. Over the next three days, the bruise on my leg dissipated, but my mind fractured into a thousand tiny puzzle pieces. I was distressed, haunted by incessant visions of the man who had sold us the table. Determined not to drag James into my madness, I drove alone to the man’s home. I banged on the front door, then, apparently, collapsed.
James was by my side in the hospital that day. At night he went home. My greatest regret would be not asking him to stay. The catalyst for my lifelong atonement. I had long forgotten the candle, both its flame and its curse. A nurse told me the next morning. A fire. In his sleep, nearly impossible to extinguish.
Everything—and everyone—gone, save for a coffee table.
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