Burning at Both Ends

I was some sort of sadist, holding my plants hostage, letting them get nearer and nearer to death before bringing them back from the edge with a much needed drink of water. It wasn't intentional - I just tended to forget they were there. Besides, I was much more accustomed to plants of the cactus variety.

It was an unusual place to live, what with no bathroom of my own and the holes in the floor that really got you when you stumbled home drunk. The walls were thin, but nothing a sleeping bag under your covers couldn't fix.

I was learning how to become a candle maker. No, I'm not from the 18th century - although that would make slightly more sense - but I do make candles. I work for some hoity toity home decor store, and the handmade candles sell for a bargain.

Sometimes I make them out of crayons. It doesn't make the candle smell good (unless you enjoy smells that are reminiscent of kindergarten) but by dipping the wick into a variety of colours, you can make a very rainbow-rific taper. I enjoyed it.

Until I met her.

Cecilia came into my life like virus. Maybe it would lie dormant, or maybe it would rise up against you and destroy the self you thought you knew. Regardless, she entered my life rather quietly, but I should have seen the portents of disasters to come.

She phoned me up, out of the blue. That was how we met. Cecilia loved my candles, and wanted to know who made them. She tracked me down from some bumblehead at the home decor store, and before I knew it I was talking to her on the phone and she was asking if she could buy me a cup of coffee while I told her about the candles. I was so busy feeling important and flattered, that I didn't stop to think about why a regular young woman could have any interested in candles, of all things.

I met up with her at the Starbucks on Granville Street. There was some debate as to which Starbucks we would be meeting at (seeing as how there are multiple Starbucks' across from one another, or on the same street) but ultimately we met up. I had taken for granted that I would know who she was - but fortunately I was spared the embarrassment of asking strangers because a tall blonde woman tapped me on the shoulder and, "Excuse me, are you the candle-stick-maker?" and I smiled and replied that I was.

How's this for poetic? Cecilia was a Baker. All we needed now was a Butcher. She spoke animatedly about cupcakes and croissants, flans, and loaves, custards and brownies. The woman loved to bake. But she was extremely interested in candles, and begged me to tell her how I made them, what helped me to choose the exact specifications that made each one unique. I was only too happy to oblige.

We soon picked up our conversation and took it from Starbucks to The Warehouse. Extremely close by, but the atmosphere was radically different. Instead of yuppie housewives on their way to yoga requesting a tall half-calf skinny latte with one and a half pumps of sugar-free vanilla, we had people scrunched down in booths, mowing down burgers and fries amidst an atmosphere of inebriation and noise. I wondered how old Cecilia was. At 28, I figured I could risk it and be interested in her.