Watching Them Burn

I placed the delicate little blossoms next to each of their names, and silently wondered where all of the previous flower offerings had gone to. They dissapeared every week mysteriously.

I had been so absorbed in my ponderings that I hadn’t noticed I wasn’t alone. I glanced inconspicuously over my shoulder. There was a solitary figure, a young man, slumped against the cold marble wall, lighting matches from a matchbook, and holding them up to a cigarette, and watching it burn as it dropped from his fingers. I stood there, transfixed, watching him do this repeatedly.

I accidentally dropped the metal container that I had been filling with flowers. It crashed loudly to the floor. He looked up. I bent down and quickly scooped up the mess, embarrassed that he had caught me staring. He stood up, walking slowly towards me, an arm outstretched.

I jumped up, and ran. I was scared. I looked back once, and he was still standing there, just watching me run away from his outstretched hand.

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