The Last Match


It took all of my power to slide the red head of the match across the side of the box.  
With a quiet ripping sound, the match sputtered into life, and slowly started to 
consume the small wooden tip.  I stared into its yellow light for a few seconds, 
watching it slowly burn halfway down the two inch stem.  Remembering my purpose, I 
quickly shook my head and lighted the three candles of the wrought iron candelabrum 
above the fireplace.  No sooner had the last candle been lit, when I started to feel the 
heat of the flame on my fingers.  But I couldn't let go.  I couldn't blow it out.  I stared at 
the light between my fingers, not even realizing the pain as the fire started to  burn my 
skin.  I watched it until my own fingers suffocated it, and a trail of smoke ascended, 
giving off the last remains of the scent I had come to know every night.
	There was only one light on in the living room, and I gently stepped over and 
turned it out.  The room was now bathed only in candlelight.  I opened up the match 
box, checking inside for what I already knew.  It had been the last match.  I set the 
withered black stick into it, and closed it back up.  I tossed it down on the burning pile 
to be disposed of whenever I felt the need to warm up to a fire.
	This marked the end.  The box was empty.  I had lit the five hundred matches, 
one by one, every night.  But only the candelabrum had ever been lit from that match 
box.  It had stayed hidden away, away from the nonchalant use of someone who didn't 
understand.  But now it was gone; it was over; and it lay on a stack of newspapers to be 
used to light kindling.
	I sat, then lay out on the couch, turning my head so I could stare at the candles.  
Their light lit the room faintly, but more importantly, lit up two picture frames on each 
of its sides.  They were empty frames.  No picture had ever sat in them, and only the 
dark matting underneath showed.  But staring at each, I knew what they were.
	The one was the match box, the other the candelabrum.  No ordinary light could 
have lit the frames up but the light of the candelabrum and the fire from those matches.  
And when those candles died, the light would be forever lost.
	I closed my eyes and remembered the night.  The candelabrum had been a gift 
accompanied by a warm hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek.  The matches were a joke.  
They had been given with the scornful remark, "Just don't burn your place down."  A 
pat on the back was given, though only for appearances.  If only the kiss hadn't been 
given first, I wouldn't have had to live with that tension of the second gift ever since.  I 
had placed the candelabrum on the fireplace, with the help of its giver to make sure it 
was centred and adequately placed as only women seem capable of doing.  Grabbing 
three candles from a kitchen cupboard, I placed them in, and struck the first match of 
the box, and lighted the candle.  In that one action, I had sealed the future of the two, 
binding them together when I couldn't have wanted to avoid that more.  After they left, 
I lay down on the couch, and stared into the candlelight, seeing how perfect it looked, 
and how the wrought iron gleamed black.  I had done such every night since.  That 
night, as I had slept there on the couch, the candles died out, and in the union of the 
two gifts, so died the two givers.
	There was no shock when I found out the next night.  My first reaction was to 
replace the candles, and re-light them again.  If it would mean just bringing her back, I 
didn't care if the other would have to come back too.  And in my heart, every time I lit a 
match, and lit the fresh candles in the candelabrum, I brought them back and could 
gaze at their happy faces in empty picture frames.  Her happiness was pure; innocent.  
But the other's was just in mockery.  Despite my loathing, I couldn't bring her back 
without the other, because she had died happy in his arms, and that was what she 
chose, so I couldn't do her any dishonour by choosing to forget such an important part 
of her.
	Five hundred nights had passed.  Nearly a year and a half.  But her smile still 
was as clear in my mind as that night, and the sensation of her hug still clung to my 
body.  My cheek still felt numb, where her gentle kiss had delicately brushed me.  But 
there was still great pain on my back where I could still feel the hand print of the 
other's pat.  For all the joy she caused me, there was the pain where the other had dared 
remind me of his presence.
	I still saw her eyes, awake and sparkling as she stared at the other, not knowing 
what wrenching my heart was going through.  And I still saw the eyes of the other, full 
of laughter and scorn, as he knew of her eyes upon him.  The sight of both seemed to 
make me want to rip my own body apart.
	The candles were about halfway burnt when a ruffling noise behind me brought 
me back to the present.  I didn't have to look around to see what it was.  In front of me 
walked a woman, clad in nightgown, who seemed to walk right up to the fireplace, and 
look the candles in the eye.
	She said without looking at me, "Darling, can't you come to bed early for once.  
I'm getting bored, all by myself."
	In a quick breath, she blew down on the firelight, the last reminders of what had 
captivated my heart for so long disappeared.  In the time of a breath, it was all gone.  
There was now only a black wrought iron candelabrum left in a black room, with her 
fire and light forever removed from her.  The greatest dishonour.
	The next morning, all the neighbours could hear were indistinguishable, 
feminine screams.

December 22, 1998