Candles

I found our first Diptyque candle inside one of the boxes. It was covered with big green bubble wrap. I fought with it and the transparent tape to get to that elegant crystal glass. A rush. That smell that oblige me to walk three steps back. And my weepy eyes closed. My mind forcing them to remember the sex we made under that candle’s spell. And the dinners we had in that bed. And the movies we watched under the light of that candle. The fragance. And the covers. And the window. And the pillows. And the small wooden floor full of her clothes when I wasn’t folding these and placing them in the chair. And the candle burning, facing a table full of papers, deadlines, our two computers. And the books. And then us. Burning altogether.

I held the candle in my hands so strongly I though I was going to break it. And then I put it back inside the big green bubble wrap rapidly. Back again inside the bottom of the box. I need to protect that smell. A sacrilege without her.

I remember the day I bought it. I arrived home. She was working in the kitchen table with a colleague on the socialist’s candidate documentary. What a beautiful gift I had made to both of us. What a luxurious night. I specifically asked the sales assistant for a sexy smell. Our first Diptyque candle witness of our souls.