The dead of night and the cold of winter, the wind whispers outside the shaky window while a well loved candle’s flame burns solemnly. The bed is messy and unmade, as is the world outside. The rickety cabin groans and the chimney huffs out its last smoke before the ash of the fire crackles and burns out. Though, the tapping of one’s finger on the old table does not subside like the crack of the flames. It continues on in a constant beat to the sound of the thump of another shoe, not far away at all. A pot on the small stovetop is stirred once, then twice, then is left unsupervised as the finger taps stop and two people rejoice in the middle of the room. One… two… three.. One … two … three… the world around fades as they dance into the night. As time etches on, everything is calm and the candle surrenders to its long awaited departure.
