Fiammetta, A Single Spark Shy of Brilliance
A very specific sequence of sounds ran through her mind for the upteenth time, a constant presence for long enough that she could hardly remember a time before: Tap, scratch, whoosh. Oh, what she would give to return to a time before this insidious infection. Unfortunately, it had festered beyond the point of recovery.
Eyeing the other passengers within the train, she found not a single pair of eyes gazed in her direction. Even still, the embarrassment within grew stronger; its gaze inescapable.
Her mind replayed events from earlier. Dismissive words and empty, hollow gestures plagued her thoughts. Sadness turned to anger then quickly shifted inward to berate herself as the sequence once again flitted through her mind. In the past, she had opted to ignore it. It was what some had instructed; an obvious, simple fix, but she had learned better. There was no fix and to ignore it was no better than allowing it to grow and fester.
Checking once more beforehand, she embraced the sequence: Tap, scratch, whoosh. Mimicking motions as if there was an invisible array of matches floating in front of her, she allowed herself a small moment to indulge in her mind's delusion. As her eyes settled on the empty space of air located at the presumed top of her lit match, she watched as the flames danced in wonderous colors, the shades of which she couldn't quite accurately describe. It called out to her. Something within yearned to reply, to bring the flames close and hold them tightly to her chest like a reunion with a dear friend.
Instead, she brought it up to her lips and softly blew it out. Enough to quell the sequence, but it would not last.
As the train began to slow, she checked for witnesses once more. A flurry of bodies as the doors opened and then closed before an individual claimed the seat directly adjacent to her and spoke in a low tone.
“Excuse me, do you have a light?”
But as she turned to reply, she found the seat empty along with all of the others within the train.
