Lighting up a Sunday night

I light an incense candle, a gift from the spa at the gym, their way of saying sorry for lifting the skin off my face, it was all a mistake, I wouldn’t have complained, mum insisted, it’s one of those designer fragrances, nothing elementary, it’s meant to be restful, it usually stands a constant vigil in the bathroom, I’m using it tonight as an accompaniment to a spa bath, the home version, I light it, wasting three matches, it’s one of those things that have always evaded me, I should’ve had girl scout classes, I’m better with a lighter, when I was twelve I tested the flick of my thumb on my grandmother’s lighter, the thrill of the light was enough, cigarettes never did hold any attraction, the candle is lit, there’s no smell, maybe it’s supposed to be subtle, but I lean in closer anyway, expecting soft notes like classical instrumental at hotel breakfasts, if I lean any closer my nostrils will be charred by the hungry flame, I move away, content to let it burn it’s own way, I like to think I’m unobtrusive, I want to campaign, spa baths for all, the scent, whether it’s there I can’t tell but as I move into my room, I carry the candle with me, leaving it there while I join the others for the frenetic finish of the formula one season, I’m disappointed, I like the red cars, maybe it’s the fickleness of sporting fortunes that attracts me to it, I return to my room, all the nuances of the incense now fill my room like a philharmonic orchestra, maybe I was too severe, I should have given it time, but tonight I want an early night, I fear the week ahead will be unwilling to compromise with fatigue, I crouch over, reminding myself of the picture of the two year old me bent over birthday cake in the album I was meant to return, I close my eyes, summoning my own south wester, to sssh its silent passage, now, I don’t have to lean any closer to catch the smell of burn, the smell of boorish waste, hell on a candle wick, a lonely cloud of smoke escapes, very dramatic, the smell of burn permeates the room, me, it’s quicker, more enduring. It’s still here.