Marishka
A dripping candle sat in the window.
The wax came off it like the petals of a wilting flower and she watched it with a mild interest as though it concerned her.
But of course it didn't.
She was His, and once you're His, you don't turn back.
You don't have to.
Or want to, either, for that matter.
But every once in a while she still turned to look at it with something in her face.
Pity, or something else, was written there.
Then He drew her attention back to herself, and she grinned.
But when he wasn't looking she glanced back at the candle, guiltily.
It wasn't as though she cared.
She didn't.
Not for the candle, anyway.
She cared for herself, only.
But wasn't that why she looked at that candle and felt so sad?
Maybe.