He was thirty eight and he had never met a girl before. And when he met her, he realized how natural that was. She was rosy as a bushel of apples and smelt of a garden in full blossom. Her hair was an unharnessed mess of sunset brown and it seemed to catch the warmth and redness of the setting sun in its tangled waves at dusk. Her teens had passed and the jeans had frayed and she seemed caught up somewhere in time between 22 and 25.Poised for the leap, faltering in the eyes.
It was that time of the year when the harvest had been reaped, when the sand seemed still too damp to sit in, when a dive into the ocean sent a nervous chill down your spine.
It was that time of the year when the harvest had been reaped and all that lay in the bare fields was the scurry of the rats after the last of the grains, the hay stacks. Neat, neglected.
It made you wish you could set fire to them. It made you think that the world would turn in its slumber and give u a lazy smile in gratitude if you did.
So he decided, set fire he would.
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