Every Little Thing She Does

She turned me into a candle on her window-sill. I had only wanted to see a witch. But I saw her naked, and she couldn’t abide it. She leaned from her window, this marvellous ever-young woman, with gleaming eyes and jet black hair and pink-brown nipples that thrust up at me as she brought her arms closer and stroked my cheeks.

“Little boy,” she said. “You can watch me anytime.”

A moment later, I was a candle in her hand, and she placed me carefully on a candlestick and put me at her window, which she closed.

It is years later now, and I am still here. People don’t believe in witches anymore, and the ever-young woman has friends who either think she looks younger than her years or that she has regular surgery. She lights me sometimes, but she never lets me melt, and people point and ask, “Is that one of those magic candles?” and she smiles and nods. And then she touches me again, just for a moment.