When the flame dies, add gasoline

Charlene slumped into her car, exhausted. “Well, shit.” These first words spoken in the hour-and-a-half drive home were all she could string together. The fire had finally gone out. Her once exhilarating career was over and not because of what she’d thought. Her mind had been racing and searching for the crux of that problem and there was simply nothing there - no coherent thoughts and no discernible trail that led to Amy’s betrayal. A coworker and supposed friend of eleven years. As she hoisted herself from the driver’s seat and emerged from the soon-to-be-repossessed luxury sedan, she caught sight of her favorite jacket lying in the mud. A sigh tried to escape, but nothing. As Charlene entered her darkened house, the motion-sensor light flickered and popped in a flash of inanimate camaraderie. She stood for a full minute with her head lowered in agnostic genuflection - keys in hand and empty leather computer bag dangling, held by two fingers, lightly brushing the floor. The antique clock in the hallway struck eight and she lethargically snapped to and used her cell flashlight to find the hall table lamp. Today was the day Charlene chose to wear sandals to work, as she fully regretted after finding the leg of the table with her freshly pedicured pinky toe. The computer bag collapsed to the floor and her keys went flying across the dark hallway with a fling of the wrist. With the light on and a turn of the corner to the living room, she discovered that the collision knocked over and broke the only item of value in the whole bottom floor...the limited edition "The Bonfire of the Vanities" commemorative dinner plate. Sitting on the couch staring at the pieces, Charlene sunk into the cushions, looked down, and saw that there was a huge rip in her pants. She stared and the hole. For a long time. Staring at what was once the best fitting and most confidence-inspiring pair of slacks she’d ever owned. On the table was a set of matches next to the last remnant of wick and wax that was a nicely scented holiday candle. She endeavored to light the paltry piece of string to no avail and only managed to burn her fingers. This...this felt...it felt good. More like a good idea. An encouraging sense of pain that sparked a new flame, or at least would ignite a new fire that could be the thing that fixed the pain. After finding a lawn chair and several bottles of alcohol, she sat in the front yard facing the house, she struck the match, and dropped it in the stream of gasoline she’d siphoned from “the bank’s” car that led to the house. The flame lit the street and made short order of the upholstered assets and started in on the more structural elements. She raised her glass to the pyromaniacal tribute to all that was obtained and would not keep her warm, but...this fire...the new one...not the house, would take her to the world she’d never imagined. A world where trappings and bobbles were issued and not purchased with fleeting excitement and long hours of thankless work. The sound of the sirens was slow to build, but soon was all around. “Well, shit.” Charlene slumped into her chair, exhausted.