Image by Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949
Mag
174
Thanks
to Tess for this prompt. Go here to read others’ offerings.
Sara was bored. She’d only agreed to come to the hop to keep her
friend company. Now her friend had got off with a boy she’d been keen on for some
time and Sara was left kicking her heels. She would have gone home but her
friend was relying on her for a lift. A lad strolled over to her, hands in
pockets, very casual. She wasn’t instantly impressed but maybe things were
looking up.
He said, ‘Come on, baby, light my fire.’
‘Do you mean you’d like a light for your cigarette?’
‘Yeah.’
Flick,
flick, flick, flick.
‘You got fuel in that thing?’
‘Of course I have. Oh, look there you are – it’s working.’
‘Turn the flame down, can’t you? You nearly ‘ad me eyebrows
there.’
‘Complaints, complaints.’
‘Keep it steady, gel.’
‘I’m doing my best.’
‘Can’t get me fag near the flame.’
‘You could take your hands out of your pockets.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’
‘It’s alight now.’
‘About time, too. See ya.’
Sara turned away, sighing. He wasn’t a prepossessing lad but
he would have helped her pass the time until she was required to drive her
friend home. Really, these village hops were a total waste of time.
Years later, fifteen or sixteen maybe, Sara was reminded of this
conversation when she heard The Doors sing, ‘Light my fire’, and remembered the
uncouth youth with the slovenly manners. Maybe he had become a musician, a
songwriter. She’d never seen him after that night, not that she’d wanted to, of
course.
The days of village hops were far behind her, thank goodness,
and she’d managed to give up smoking, so no-one would ever again ask her for a
light.
