Flick

By Megan Willoughby

 

 

 

Flick. Flick. Flick.

 

He reaches into his pocket. There are a multitude of items in it: Marlboro Reds, a pocket

knife, mints, a beer. He pulls the cigarettes out and places one in his mouth. It dangles helplessly

between his lips as he reaches for the matches. He pulls out the box. It is a faded yellow with

brown borders. He remembers that it came from some banquet hall.

 

He opens the box. Flick.

 

Thirty matches, all lined up. Lined up like kids after recess. Lined up perfectly, their

bodies erect, their little white heads at full attention.

 

He runs his finger along the stem of one. Swish. Up and down. Swish.

 

Back and forth. Flick. Flick.

 

They smell of cardboard.

 

He tears one off and strikes it against the back of the box. It sparks and nearly singes his

eyebrows. He lights the cigarette. He throws the match to the ground and crushes it into the

asphalt.

 

He smokes in silence.

 

Before him is a building. His home. He lives there, but his wife and child don’t. No, they

live across town.

 

Flick. He hits the box with his fingernail.

 

He inhales. The smell of gasoline and cigarette smoke wafts through the night. It masks

the clean, fresh smell of sprinklers. The neighbors are asleep.

 

He continues to smoke, inhaling and exhaling monstrous amounts of smoke.

 

He walks towards the house. It’s all lit up. He can see everything. He remembers where

they used to put the Christmas tree. He remembers all the old ornaments. He remembers the old

candles his wife had on the mantel. He remembers Thanksgiving with the whole family. He

would carve the turkey. His wife would make the stuffing. The kids would sit in the living room.

 

He stops and kicks a sprinkler. He remembers when the neighbor kid accidentally broke

it.

 

Gasoline wafts from the empty rooms. The breeze carries the smell through the open

doors and windows.

 

He finishes his cigarette and throws it on the grass.

 

He opens the matchbox again. Flick.

 

He pulls another off and lights it. Flick. He throws it through the window into the master

bedroom. The flame hits the gasoline. The room is aglow within an instant. He moves to the

other windows. Soon, the whole house is in flames.

 

The matchbox is empty. He throws it into the flames. He looks at it for a moment, his

eyes full of longing. His home. Burning. Gone.

 

He turns his back and begins to walk down the street.

 

 

 

 

Megan Willoughby is currently studying English at California State University: Northridge. When she isn’t hitting the books, she spends her time chasing squirrels and writing in orange groves.