Her chest caught fire every time she thought of him. It used to happen uncontrollably: in the middle of the aisle while grocery shopping, in her silent car sitting at a stoplight, seeing any absolutely unknown random old man. There were times she wanted to put it out as she thought the fire grew too hot. She tried water then fire foam then alcohol then sex then pills. Nothing worked. She learned she had to sit with the fire and that it would die on its own each time. Sometimes it took 45 minutes. Sometimes it took 6 months. As time went on, the fire appeared less and less. And years later, she found herself buying newspapers to crumble and place under the kindling. She stroked the matches and added logs to stoke the fire for however long she wanted. She realized the heat of the fire, though it might scorch her skin, would never let her forget him. That they could dance again in the shadows of the smoke.