I’m on fire. Literally. I’m not certain how it happened. One minute I’m inside Beth in her kitchen and the next my right arm is being devoured by flames. It was probably the oil, I think. She was cooking with oil. I was behind her, at first, looking over her shoulder into the skillet. She stirred, I groped. Things moved rapidly from there. It had been 18 months since we fucked and it was all unspooling--fierce, sincere, immediate.

It says something about a woman when she can make you feel so good that you smell your flesh burning before you feel it. It says even more if your first thought thereafter is not ‘How do I put it out?’ but ‘How long can I stay inside her before she notices?’. I think of ways to keep it from her--moans of pleasure vs. groans of pain, the difference isn’t that vast. The hardest part is not touching her with my fiery limb. It’s so hard, in fact, that I can’t do it, and soon we’re both on fire, literally. And so what?, I think. What’s the difference? We’re together again, no matter what. Come hell or high water or 3rd degree disfigurement, I’m back where I belong. I’m about to shout it when I see the look on her face: she’s thinking it, too. We are *that* in synch as we fall to the floor and the flames of our thrusting bonfire swell to consume the house, the block, and this defenseless city.