The object of Arabella's affections lay in an empty box a midst a scatter of white tea candles arranged in a seemingly random yet subliminal pattern across the ashy, wood floor. The wick of each candle was burnt to a jet black crisp, and a drip puddle of used wax encrusted and sealed all thirty six, hard to the floor. Arabella's lips were drawn to a tight line, her tangled, roused hair looked as if she had spent one too many days either in bed or by the salty air of the sea, and the expression in her stormy grey eyes was one of deep muse and thought.
If she flicked open the empty paper box, there would always be one of two outcomes, both of which would give her fleeting happiness. The first result would put all her senses to use, a careful coordination of quick kinetics, and an ultimatum of a pleasurable scent and visual success. The second would require the equally pleasurable action of popping open her frequently used umbrella and stepping out into the light rain falling over Cardiff and to the tiny tabac on the street corner.
One of two scenarios.
A 50/50 chance.
Comme ci, Comme ca.
And as she finally opened the worn box of matches, the objects of Arabella's affections became a game of chance.
-ck
*all stories are originals and are a work of pure fiction with a sliver of personal truth*
