Our First Date and My Fear of Matches by Lauren Mills (North Carolina)*

She came over for the first time 
in the dead of winter. When I turned 

my hair dryer on hot and high in 
anticipation (of my expectations) (of 

her expectations), the lights shut off. 
I muttered a prayer to Eve, will femininity always 

make a fool out of me? I painted my face 
in shimmering shades of pink
​

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and waited in the cold. I’ve always been wary 
of candles— I don’t like the matches 

and their sensitive centers of gravity. Tip ‘em too far 
down and the flame crawls, up and up, 

to nip at your fingertips. She knocked 
and I apologized for the midnight 

state of things. Her laugh induced a red rose 
blush and we played cards 

in the shade on my bedroom floor. Before 
the sunlight left for good, I watched 

it paint her in holy light. She focused down, 
searching for a king, and I worshiped 

her from across the deck. That night 
she left a note folded in my hand 

(learn to light a candle, i’ll see you 
soon). My lights stayed off 

for two more weeks, so I took her advice 
and singed my skin. We kept embers

alive through January, 
February, then burned out soon after. 

I only looked when she wasn’t. She never 
looked at all. Still, once I wash the ashes 

and bitterness away, there are lessons 
learned. From the pyre, a message: 

Thank you. I’m not afraid 
of matches anymore— I light
 
my little fires everywhere, candles perched 
on all my cabinet tops. Every night, 

vigils are held for one-sided 
devotion. My life smells smoky, 

with pine, vanilla, and fresh linen 
floating underneath. I take your note
 
and dip it in, watch it 
curl and blacken and leave.