Fire-Starters

There's a fresh-faced boy
who works at the local Starbucks.
When I enter the store, he
bounces on his feet a bit.
His eyebrows go up in
recognition. It's been so
long, but I can identify it
as flirting. Gareth did that.

There's a new friend with
a wicked sense of humor
and an ability to mimic
accents. Sharp. Witty.
His subtle comments in
a group conversation
sometimes go unnoticed
but to me, bent over,
holding my side, and
laughing until tears
come out. Gareth did that.

I felt the smallest spark
of attraction while ordering
my coffee and later while trading
hilarious commentary with
my friend. I'm sorry, Gareth,
I found myself thinking.
I think I want to be kissed. 

I shared these things with
a girlfriend, my adopted
sister here in Korea. I felt
foolish. Taken aback. I don't
want a relationship. I'm not
even ready to date. But-ah!
To feel this part of me waking
up after a year-long sleep.
To look at someone and want
to step closer, into that space
where everything feels electric.

Of course!, my sister said.
These two are fire-starters.
You are a connector. Anyone
who knows you knows that.
And you are a sexual being.
You connect in many ways.
And for a long time you weren't
sure you'd ever feel that again.
These two- safe people- 
got the role of starting your 
fire. That may be all they do. 

And what good news that
was! What a relief! What a
cause for celebration! Not
only could I feel that "fire"
(as she put it) again, but I
wouldn't have to ruin a nice,
new friendship or creep on
the coffee boy who is almost
half my age. I could just
thank them (in my head)
for showing me there is
a spark in there to be flamed.

For a day or two a gate was
drawn back and I was allowed
to imagine things with someone
else. And they were such seemingly
benign things: being held,
late night talking in bed and
laughing, having my eyelid kissed,
being looked at as someone
desirable, someone who herself
lit a blazing fire in someone else,
reaching across the table and
touching fingers. A kiss to make
the legs unsteady and the heart
work hard for its right to beat.

And then. (And there seems to
always be an "and then") it hit me.

Gareth did that. All of those things.
I am imagining it with these
fire-starters because I miss it
so, so very much with him.

And, yes, the coffee boy is
ridiculously handsome with
a magazine-cover smile. And, yes,
my new friend's humor and
general easy companionship
work like a secret misting of
pheromones when I'm not looking.
The truth is the fire being started
is one that was already there.

It's Gareth's fire. It was lit
the moment we met and
exchanged the same type of
witty banter. It was fanned
each day that followed:
each walk, each movie watched,
each coffee sipped, each glance
exchanged. Each inside joke,
each finger stroked, each eyelid
kissed, each late-night talk.

This fire, our fire, my fire that
was started on that August
day while rounding the corner
and meeting this man- this
fire cannot be put out. Over
the past year I covered
it with ashes. His ashes. I
choked on the dust and the
embers of it each night when
I attempted to lay myself
down on top of it. I got it to a
bearable and almost unnoticeable
glow. And then came the fire-starters.

My guess is they each
unwittingly kicked across
the ash pile with no intention
whatsoever of checking for
sparks under that soot and
that ash. One kick. And two
kicks. And oops- whatdoyouknow
there's a tiny flame there.

And when the coffee is handed
to me with a flirtatious smile
and I exit the shop (*kick the ash!
up goes the flame!*) or the
friend makes me laugh once
more before turning to walk
home (*kick the ash! up goes
the flame!*) I am left looking
at the fire they both helped to
start, and I ask myself,

Who does this really burn for?