We’ve been watching people have sex for over an hour. People entangled on the big screen, while each of us rest in our normal spots, me sipping red wine on the chaise and you a light beer in the recliner. We laugh. We comment. We don’t touch. At one point, you look at me and wink. I laugh and raise my glass in response. We’ve got the video on mute, playing classical music in the background. Then, I think I smell fire and sniff the air like a dog. You wrinkle your brow and do the same. We look around, trying to find the smoke or flames. I search my brain for the last time I checked the fire alarms and relax, only 2 months ago, on schedule. You search for the fire while I daydream about the time I made out with a guy from college in his fraternity bedroom, how his fingertips on my skin made me tingle like I had been electrocuted, how my cheeks would flush like they did with alcohol, combustion taking place as he made me scream his name and I would lay there sweating, swearing I saw smoke rising from my body. Then, you’re there, yelling my name, not wanting to get too close to me but still reaching out your hand, attempting to save me, when all I want is for that fire to consume us both.
