A Single Spark

There are times in life when love fails to burn, even with accelerants and the best firewood money could buy. It's no one's fault. No matter how hard both sides work the fire just won't start. They can beg and plead and sometimes even feel heat or see flames, but nothing they do changes the simple fact: there is no fire.

And there are times when a single spark sets your soul alight. A moment enraptures you. A look seers itself into your memory, even if no words are exchanged. Someone's laugh fills the ache in your heart and you realize you fell in love with a stranger.

When I turned twenty-five my entire life had fallen apart. Nothing particularly exciting had happened. I had started out normal, I had gotten through High School, I had a meager job waiting tables in a café under a cheap apartment building and I paid my rent on time.

Then one morning I just . . . didn't. The café closed with the word 'Quarantine' lingering in the air. I couldn't find another job to pay the rent. I sold everything I could to try and keep myself afloat, but that doesn't work on a long-term basis. When I missed the fifth month of rent, I was evicted. My Dad, who lived across the country, told me he would do what he could to help me. His sobs echoed over the receiver as he admitted he wouldn't be able to do much.

Before I knew it, the open sky was my roof. At first, I didn't know what to do. I wasted what money I had left on laundry and my last self-sufficient meal for the time being. I still had some things; a suitcase of things to be precise. Anything that didn't fit in that suitcase didn't stay in my possession for long.

Some people were friendly.

Some weren't.

Some people were helpful.

Most weren't.

The bitterness didn't stick as long as I thought it would. I spent my days wandering between shelters, begging enough to get myself the bare necessities. People wanted to help, I could see it in their eyes, but the virus hit hard. I knew everyone was struggling, and whenever I got enough money for laundry, I would submit my application to every shop I could walk to, help wanted sign or no.

I tried to convince myself this was it, this was rock bottom, but I was wrong.

On the first day of Month three, I woke up to find my suitcase missing.

I searched -of course I searched- but it was long gone.

I was sitting there, head in my hands, eyes stinging with frustration when a hand landed as lightly as a feather on my shoulder.

"Hey," a soft sparkling voice soothed, "Don't worry, you're okay."

I couldn't look up at the woman. My heart felt like crushed glass. Each breath clawed its way out of my chest. Her hand never retreated, even when I started to wretch with panic. After what felt like hours, I was too exhausted to keep crying. The panic that had overtaken my mind slowly retreated into its usual corner. I held it at bay with stuttering breaths and uncaring sighs.

When I finally looked up, she had a smile as soft as sunlight.

Her misty ocean blue eyes had crinkles around the edges. Her black hair was tied into pigtails with the remains of a mask and she strummed her fingers through the air as if to say 'feeling better?'.

"Hi," I managed to groan, face swollen and red.

"Hey," she smiled, "How are you feeling?"

I wanted to say something, but my throat closed until it was the size of a pinhole. With a shrug I struggled to hold back tears again. She twisted her hair, eyes distant and toes wiggling in her well-worn shoes. With a smile brighter than a bonfire she grabbed my hands and pulled me to my feet. I resisted, wishing everything hadn't gone so wrong.

"I think I have an idea," she said, "Follow me." She didn't let go as she started walking, pulling me into the city. I wanted to tell her to go without me, to sparkle like starlight for someone who deserved it, but she held on tight, pulling me like a tide.

Our first stop was a thrift store, the kind with too many shelves and not enough staff. The woman at the front gave us a suspicious look, but we quickly ignored each other as the girl led me to a shelf.

She pulled out a black leather duster, holding it up to herself and spinning as if it were a gown. The duster was too big, and I told her as much, to which she gave me a wicked grin.

"I'm sure it is," she said and pulled a crumpled ball of ones and fives from her pocket. She placed them on the counter to the thrift store and the woman sighed counting them out one by one.

When satisfied the old woman handed over the coat, sweeping the change into the register with a disgusted huff.

"Where to next?" I asked, a little confused.

"This way!" she said, half skipping out of the store, the duster fluttering behind her. I jogged to catch up, afraid to lose sight of her. My heart pounded as chased after her fluttering coat like a shadow. She stopped at a food truck giving me a wave at a distance. The man behind the window handed her a bag, smiling and shaking his head, eyes loving and soft. I could hear her laugh jingle across the street, dancing and rolling like waves.

"What is she doing?" I whispered. She grabbed the bag with a twinkle in her eye. My heart leaped into my throat as she turned, blue eyes meeting mine. For a moment we stared at each other until a mischievous smile slowly glowed over her face. It was just starting to get dark, the street lights were flickering on in the boisterous hours of the night.

She held up the box as if to say 'come and get it!' and turned and ran. It felt like I was chasing smoke. Her duster would disappear around corners or into buildings until I was lost, trapped between alleyways behind restaurants. My breath had left again, this time out of spite rather than aching fear. I waited, hoping I would see something, anything to tell me where she had gone. I realized the box she had picked up was sitting beside one of the back doors, and the duster was folded neatly atop them, trapping the steam in a cloud. Hunger strong enough to make me nauseous rumbled across my chest I smelled whatever was in the box.

"What are you doing?" she laughed. I whirled, searching for her voice. It reverberated in my ears with a distinct echo and I quirked a brow at the nearest dumpster. Peering inside I found her sifting through wine bottles like a raccoon searching for its next meal.

"I was looking for you," I said, relieved to see her brightly sparkling eyes looking up at me.

"I found it," she exclaimed. She held an empty bottle of Merlot above her head, all of her teeth exposed within a blinding smile. I couldn't help but chuckle at the dumpster gremlin holding an empty bottle above her head. She looked so proud.

"I didn't know you had such fine tastes," I joked. She laughed, holding her hand out.

"What can I say, I love the finer things in life!" I helped her out of the dumpster, and she readorned her jacket.

"One more stop," she declared. We walked to the grocery store, talking about our favorite flowers rather than exchanging our names. When we arrived, she handed me the food, disappearing inside with a wink and a skip. I held the box of food, curiosity holding my hunger at bay.

She came out with a brown paper bag and a finger on her lips, holding in a secret she was going to share with me. She grabbed my hand again this time running so I could barely hold her fingers. By the time we stopped again neither of us could breathe, laughing too hard to see. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, chewing the air out of my lungs. I choked and coughed on the sidewalk.

We had stopped outside a huge run-down apartment building with a large Foreclosed sign tapped to the front door. The bricks were painted a yellowed white, making the watermarks stain even worse than usual. Scaffolding was still set up around the tapped windows and she led me inside without a word.

She talked without breath until we reached one of the highest apartments in the building. I wondered where she kept all her words when I seemed to have dropped mine, but it didn't matter. I liked hearing her voice. The apartment we entered was empty, nothing more than a large open room with a broken window and island kitchen set. I put the food on the counter as she ran the water in the sink, scrubbing at glass.

"What are you doing?" I asked. She said nothing, only whistling an unfamiliar tune.

After another moment she started pouring the brown bag down the sink.

I didn't question it, staring out the window over the city. It wasn't a metropolis, but there were enough twinkling lights under the fading sunset to give us a beautiful view.

"Monsieur," she said with the most atrocious French accent I'd ever heard, "Do you care for a bottle of our finest Merlot?" she held up the bottle, label out, as though she were a professional waiter. Two chipped wine glasses were sitting on the island counter, glowing slightly in the last light of the sunset. She paused to give me a burning smile, lips pulled high against her cheeks. I could see freckles stretched across the bridge of her nose like scattered marbles.

"Only if Mon Petite Baguette will be having some," I said through repressed laughter.

"But of course!" she exclaimed, pouring the 'Merlot' into the wine glasses. She went into what I assumed was the bedroom, coming out with two very unsteady barstools. With the flourish of a ringmaster, she handed me my seat, dropping next to me.

"And now, for the lovely couple-" she giggled as I flushed, unknowingly beaming at her, "I present your dinner." She popped the tabs on the Styrofoam containers, revealing the cheesiest pasta I had ever seen. It smelled amazing, a combination of garlic, oregano, and mozzarella all blended in harmony. She slid one wine glass over to me and the stem broke, a cascade of dark wine spilling across the counter like a tidal wave. We both just watched as it started to drip onto the linoleum. The drips tapped like the beat of a drum and when it finally started to fade, we were laughing again.

Her laughter felt like the glow of a fire. It crackled and broke like logs in the flames. Every time she wheezed it was the hiss of pine, and I couldn't help but watch as she swept the wine onto the floor.

We ate first, sometimes locking eyes and choking back laughter all over again. When we finished I helped her wipe wine off the floor, a blush as dark as the wine spread across my face.

She promised I could stay as long as I wanted. From then on, whenever we shared a meal, we broke out the old bottle of Merlot.

That didn't fix everything. I still struggled to find a job, to find my place, but it was enough. Sometimes what we need isn't a million dollars and a mansion in Italy.

Sometimes what we need is someone to make our soul burn.

Someone to share a glass of Merlot, a sunset, and a smile with.