Flash Fiction: The Fire

In the firelight, her porcelain face was a mask of shifting shadows. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her fingers were clenched so tight she dug furrows in her long skirt. Her eyes that had been so dazzlingly open before were hard now, focused, sharp as a blade as she stared at the flames. In some long, forgotten part of his soul, he dredged up sympathy for her.

“They don’t like the fire, do they?” she asked.

“No. Some even less than others.”

“Good.” He might have seen a tear glistening crystal on her cheek, but she dashed it away. “I’ve decided I love fire.”