It exists, however adamantly you try to argue against.

Between the unlit match and the untouched cigarette, lying horizontal at opposite sides of the bed with their heads resting on respective pillows. Pristine pale pink sheets pulled up to chins.

A spark.

The flip of a cigarette case and ten minutes later, sheets crumpled around the two. To me that says it all, but if you need more…

The burnt down match entwined round the end of the last little unsmokable bit of the cigarette. Maybe they fell that way, you say, on fire, pressed up against each other like that.

They are sharing a pillow, all feet and burning passion, only you don’t see the feet, the disarray of the duvet leaves them to your sordid imagination. What would they look like, the feet of matches…?

You’re thinking after seeing evidence in the form of grainy pictures taken by the smokey sex paparazzi that maybe it’s possible. If only you could see the feet, you think.

And if you look closely, red little winged hearts flutter from somewhere above the empty pillow to hover around the ashy black head of the match. There’s something delicate about that, you tell me.

I point very convincingly at the before and after shots.

And when you say you’re worried about charcoal stains on perfect pillowcases, I know you believe me.

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On a similar-but-not-the-same note, I am still using the oven lighter, goddamn it!