The Firebug Finds Love
The Firebug Finds Love If they made a sulfur scented aftershave, I’d rock it. But I seldom need to shave. The man next door hides behind a beard. He sneaks outside to smoke cigarettes, an occasional cigar, puffed to the nub and gathered in a plastic solo cup. He sniffs the air as if he might sense me behind the window’s shade. My earliest memory was playing in the fire pit on camping trips; trapping beetles between the red hot logs until they sizzled, popped. I’ve never had a real girlfriend, but the checkout girl where I get my matches is as beautiful as a butterfly in flames.