She was always hesitant of blowing off the candle; the smoke that came thereafter had a smell that she did not like. But she liked candles so it was inevitable. When he was still in her life, he was relegated to this duty.
There was something comforting in the scent of the smoke; in the dying of the flame; in the brief hot glow of the burnt wick. As she went to bed that night turning off their bedside lamp, he caught the red glow in his sight. He saw the red wick, now without the weight of the flame, slowly go out. In the dark the redness was brilliant and he wondered: how many of us are wicks to other people's flames.