My fingernails are digging their way into my palm and my front teeth are breaking the skin of my bottom lip. In my other hand I’m holding a small bic lighter ready at any moment to set all his gasoline-covered belongings aflame. This isn’t going to be like the heat that crept up my body when his fingertips traced my skin. These flames will be so much brighter. This will be an inferno of hatred and justice. This needs to cancel out every time my heart surged with just a smile from him. This has to give me some satisfaction, right? I keep brushing the metal flint with my thumb, but am I ready to start this fiery affair? Every time I was around him I felt like I was on fire, but what is the point of doing this now? My flame is out.