They had the dynamic of gasoline and a lit match. They both played both roles well, each in turn. When he was the wallowing, puddle on the floor, she was there- always there- ready to set the fire that would engulf them both. Likewise, when her mood melted into that liquid fuel stage, he had the lighter poised and ready.
It was difficult to say why they did it. Maybe, in some weird way, they enjoyed it; all of it, the smell of burning hair, the sizzling, popping, broiling flesh, their bones incinerating. It has its appeal. Maybe neither of them knew anything else.
People warned them of course, their friends and families.
"Those who play with fire get burned," they'd say.
Does a lit match have ears for the wise words of loved ones?
Does gas give a fuck?
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