Original Fiction
There was a brief flare as she dragged the match across the striking strip before it settled into a steady burning. She held the match, turning it sideways and back watching the bright orange flames creep steadily up the black cardboard, closer, closer. She blew it out just as the flames were about to lick her fingers. She dropped the burnt remains next to several others on the end table, picked up her teacup and swallowed the hot liquid generously dosed with whiskey from her husband’s liquor cabinet. She hardly ever drank and even mixed with tea the alcohol made her cough. But tonight was such a special occasion she felt it was justified.
She turned the book of matches over in her hand, smooth cardboard, the rough texture of the striker, real, tangible. ‘Be safe keep cover closed’ simple white words stark against the black cardboard. It was good advice, perhaps she should have kept the cover closed tight on her doubts and suspicions. She could have remained in her safe little world where everything was taken care of for her as long as she just didn’t question. But she had enough whiskey in her to admit she was tired of living this lie. She ran her thumb over the book of matches, ‘Bally’s Atlantic City’. Funny how he’d managed to pick it up on his business trip to Pennsylvania.