People used to walk up to me regularly and ask if I could model. When I was sixteen, I would frequently dress myself up and powder my face, you know, a bit like those cigarette girls you used to see in shop windows? I was like a young protégée. Maybe like the next Miss America, or, in the deep recesses of my mind, even Betty Grable.
I was fooling myself, of course. Though I enjoyed dressing up on a full-time basis and wearing nice hats, I knew that most of these fantasies wouldn’t go beyond what my mind imagined. In truth I was a mere dreamer. My childish whims would never reach the grand streets of New York. I knew who I was, but my mind sometimes got carried away . . .
I was eighteen when I met my husband, who, at the time we began dating was twenty-four. We worked at the local supermarket together for a short while, and I would write telling little love notes and put them on his desk when he wasn’t looking. Him being a manager, and I working a step beneath him as a mere associate, we didn’t get much chance to talk, so thus our only communication was through these notes. He never answered them, I suppose because he was a man. But still we interacted in a silent sort of way that told us much was left unanswered- thus we began to date.
Our first date was one of infamous blunder and it is for that very reason that I shall never forget it. I still remember the shock and surprise on my husband’s face when I told him I had booked us seats at the Restaurant Regalia- one of the town’s finest cuisine choices. Though downtown, it was situated only a block from where we worked so we were able to go there directly afterward. The place had an aura of modern style to it, but the food was said to be delicious, so . . .
The interior was a splattered mix of textile and old-fashioned photos. The waitresses barged around wearing aprons made of steamed starch and hats that looked like sailors’ apparel. The one wearing high-topped boots served us. After glancing quickly at the menu and seeing that I comprehended only half of the choices on it, I hastily placed an order for a vintage-style hamburger. My future husband did the same. The waitress gathered the menus and walked away, while I took my lighter out and lit a cigarette.
In anticipation of our date later on that evening, before I went to work that morning I’d had my fingernails done up. In appreciation of my efforts, my nails were a bright, nicely painted red color, and had grown about a half-inch. My loosely curled, almost black hair and red strapless top completed the picture, one that I thought complemented me more than the quintessential models I’d recently observed. Feeling relaxed and sure of myself, I leaned back slightly. My similarly red lipstick contrasted my black hair starkly, and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was the pure image of sophistication. My eyes roved around the room serenely.
I suppose I realized subconsciously that my cigarette was hanging between two of my fingers. Nevertheless, not thinking that it might be a problem (I was, after all, the essence of elegance) I therefore jumped quite poignantly when Will said to me,
“Um, honey, your fingernail’s on fire.” I glanced down. Sure enough, where my glistening red nail had been before was now a little jumping flame of fury. Frantically, I hastily began blowing on it . . . and finished the job with a birthday splendor.
My future husband meanwhile, was watching this whole ordeal with a small smile that looked suspiciously like amusement. As soon as I put the flame out, I dropped the cigarette butt into an ashtray, the color of my cheeks an ironic perpetrator of the downfall of my shattered portrait. When I finally had the courage to look up again, Will was observing me with an indeterminable expression- I could almost describe it as pensive. For some strange and unknown reason, this odd reaction to my folly relieved my tension somewhat, and I fell once more into relaxation. We let an extended silence befall us after that. I allowed my eyes to fall for a second time upon the room, in a much more modest position than before albeit . . . when I turned he was still staring at me.
Something in his eyes had changed. They had become alive, sentient beings activated by their own inner strength. My world slowly became surreal. A telltale thumping, a distant roaring in my chest gradually began animating me with a growing force of fury. A mystical, magnetic being was suddenly pulling us forward, and then before I knew it our lips met- I was at once inundated in the most passionately intense experience I had ever felt, as though I had suddenly become like flotsam and moving with the waves of rushing madness. After a moment of timeless energy had passed, we drew apart, and as I looked into Will’s eyes I saw the most tremendous surge of longing I had ever seen in my life- immediately I kissed him once more.
Everything that I had ever lusted after all my life, my dreams, culminated at that single moment into a realization; my notions of being a cigarette queen were promptly shattered. As we subsequently withdrew, my gaze focused upon him like a sticking magnet, Will took my chin in his hands and leaned in close. Thinking that he was about to kiss me again, I tilted my head a bit in anticipation. But then he whispered to me, in a voice so soft I could barely hear it,
“That flame was the one that stroked the fire.” After that the world ignited.
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