Life's Simple Pleasures

I wandered into the living room to see him bent over the fire place, packing the logs into a pile in the grate and then ripping some newspaper to place on the top. I watched as he took a lighter from the back pocket of his jeans, then crouched down and held the small flame next to the paper. The flame began to snake across the shredded sheets, feeding on the paper and swelling with every mouthful.

He stepped away and turned to see me lingering in the doorway. He held out his arms and I went to him, pressing my face against his chest as he folded me in his arms. We stayed like that for a few long moments, the magnitude of the evening weighing on us both. When we drew apart, he took my hand and led me to the sofa, where we sat down facing the fireplace. He kept his arm around my shoulder, as though he needed to hold on to me in case I drifted away. There seemed to be no point in talking. Everything important had already been said and it seemed wrong to talk about anything mundane, like it would somehow be disrespectful to the significance of our last evening together.

So we both stared silently at the fire. The flames were hypnotic, twitching and jerking, occasionally darting across the grate or flaring up like an angry horse. They had ripped through the newspaper and were now devouring the logs, hungrily tearing layers off them and spitting out orange and white sparks on to the rug.

I thought about the last two months we had spent together. They were the most exhilarating and passionate I had ever experienced. He had blasted into my life like a tornado, wrenching me from my roots and spinning me into a feverish frenzy. From a comfortable, contented existence, I had skidded into the wildest, most thrilling adventure of my life. Every sensible thought was knocked out of my head and I became obsessed, addicted. We were inseparable, greedy for each other, dizzy with desire.

Of course, any pleasure is only made so sweet by the agonising pain of knowing that it cannot last. About that, he had been clear. He had a “real” life he had to go back to. For me, my real life had started the day that I met him.

I turned my gaze from the fire to the window. It was late afternoon and gloomy shadows were beginning to tiptoe into the woods that surrounded the cabin. There had been a breeze earlier in the day but the forest had sucked it away and now there wasn’t a shiver or flutter amongst the trees. The branches were bare at this time of year and, with no leaves to protect them, the trees stood brave and solemn against the cold like uncomplaining soldiers. The weak sun had been swept aside by an impatient darkness, and the grey sky dripped down into the forest.

The night was just beginning. Our last night together. Tomorrow hovered outside like a thief, waiting to break in and steal our joy. But, for the moment, it would have to wait.