Like the mysteries around the solitary wool socks found hanging around the dryer and the clover I found growing alongside the potted jade in the living room, I’ve got a new unknown to occupy the unused corners of my mind.
The transitory and fickle nature of lighters.
Mary called the other day, left a message. “It’s very patriotic over here. I’ve got three lighters: red, white, and blue, and none of them are mine! What is going on here? Do you think I’m like a safe house for wayward lighters?”
Do I think she’s a safe house for wayward lighters? I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer that; but just for fun, I’m going to say “yes".
And now I find they’re coming for me: in old jackets, in the street, on the bus: Bics, Crickets, the occasional Mighty Match. I gained four lighters after the last party. Were they left behind by their drunken owners? Were they escaping bad situations at home?
Lighters are notoriously silent about their private lives.
There were two lighters at the back of the bus yesterday. They might’ve been on their way to Mary’s – they were headed in the right direction, after all – but I didn’t talk to them. I think that’s how they’ve been ending up at my house lately. Last time I ended up talking to a couple of Bics they followed me home and I loaned one of them my car.
Shh. You hear that?
The lighters are migrating.
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