Fire

Standing at the back of the garden, she strikes the match and watches the flame develop, turning the match transfixed as the flame takes hold.

She drops the match into the metal waste paper basket on the grass in front of her. Beside the basket is the biscuit tin that used to hold the photos and letters now soaked by lighter fluid, waiting for the flame to take hold. The flame settles, gently licking the bin’s contents, until it finds the accelerant and the flames engulf the whole bin.

Under the glow of the consuming fire, the photos and letters start to burn. She watches on as the bin’s contents start to degrade, and the pictures and words start to disappear.

“What are you doing?”

She turns, he’s walking behind her from the house.
“Saying goodbye.” she replies.

He gets closer, looks from the flame filled bin and sees the biscuit tin on the grass. He picks it the tin, it’s not hers, it’s his. His memories now burning not hers. He panics.

“What have you done?” he demands.
“No one will know now.” she replies.

He silently screams in exasperation. “I can’t go on like this.” The photos and paper are now a black crisp of their former form. No point in trying to relieve anything, try to undo the damage done.

She steps closer to him, and softly takes the tin from his hands. “I’ll clean this up, it can go in the recycling tomorrow.” She cradles his cheek in her hand, and turns his face to look at her. She tries to comfort him. “No one will know.”

“What if I need them to know?” he replies through gritted teeth, and pushes her hand away. They’ve had this argument too many times recently.

She dismisses him, “It's done now”.

She turns and walks into the house, leaving him to watch the embers burn the last evidence of that part of his past.