Something About a Fire

“You’re standing too close.”

“I’m not. Just turn it on.”

She was definitely standing too close – but maybe my ‘antagonistic tone’ bothered her.

She was such a contrarian.

“Look I’m not turning it on with your head inside the fireplace. Move.”

“It’s not inside the fireplace.” But she did move back an inch or so. “I want to really feel it. I want to feel something. You know?”

I wanted to ask: did I not make you feel something? But I could only manage, “You’re still too close.”

“Of course you don’t get it. Why would you?” She didn’t move any further.

“You know, lots of people die from being too close to the hearth,” I said.

She whipped around. “Oh really? Do ‘lots’ of people die like this? May I ask, what is your source on this groundbreaking revelation?”

“Okay, calm down,” I said. “I’m just saying it’s really dangerous, and maybe the likelihood of catching fire has decreased over time – but that’s at least in part because of increased fire safety.”

She scoffed.

“It’s like vaccines. People think they’re unnecessary because they don’t remember polio.”

“You don’t remember polio.”

“Well, I’m just saying.”

I watched her from the couch while the room grew colder and darker, but I couldn’t think of a more persuasive argument. 

Eventually she got tired of waiting, grabbed the hearth key, and started it. After a few seconds she said quietly, “There’s not enough fuel.” She put her hand almost inside the flames. “Still too cold.”

“Jesus, just give it time,” I said. “Your sleeve’ll catch.”

She ignored me – first scooting closer to the hearth, until I thought her hair might singe. Then she stood and left to find fuel.

I thought it felt nice as it was.

When she came back with ethanol, she started pouring it on the fake logs. 

I sat up. “You’re doing it completely wrong,” I said. The fire looked wild – like, it hadn’t even imagined there was this much fuel in the world but it was certainly going to take advantage of the situation.

“Here, let me,” I said. But she didn’t want any help. “You’re going to burn the whole cabin down.”

The fake logs looked like they were melting. She threw the empty canister into the fire, and it gave a little burp. 

“Are you really that cold?” I said. What could cause someone to be that cold?

She knelt in front of the fire, much heartier now, and started again seeing how close she could get to the flames without hurting herself. It turned out to be pretty damn close. Maybe she got fuel on her hand, or it was just so far in, because it looked like it had caught.

“Hey,” I said. “Hey!”

She still didn’t look at me, just snapped, “What?” so testily that I faltered. Her hand was now in up to the elbow.

But what could I say? That she was going to hurt herself? It sounded so insufficient, at this point, and also maybe not true? Wouldn’t she already be feeling it by now if she was going to feel it at all?

I tried, “Be careful?”

She sighed, not even bothering to dignify my question with a response, and climbed in with her back to the brick. Well, at least now she had to look at me.

She held her knees to her chest. Clearly she was in some amount of pain, and it looked like she was crying. Maybe her face was glistening with melting or blistering skin.

I felt like I needed to respond in some way, but what even was there to say, so I just knelt to watch her burn or not burn, I still couldn’t tell.

She said, “You should probably just go,” and reached out to close the screen.