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Rachel made a wish too. I have the wicker, the fire, and something I’m willing to give up. I still need the words.

I’ve already made the decision. Standing in my kitchen with a lighter pointed at a pair of underwear I bought for my new celibate life doesn’t make it feel more rational.

“Fine.”

I touch the flame to the waistband. At first, exactly what should happen does. The fabric darkens and curls while a small orange flame works along one edge, and I’m already estimating how quickly I can turn on the faucet if the smoke detector decides to participate.

I keep one hand near the faucet anyway. If the smoke detector starts screaming or the whole thing gets out of control, I’m ending this experiment immediately.

For several seconds, nothing happens except exactly what should happen when cotton meets fire.

Which leaves the part I still haven’t figured out.

The wish.

I stand in my kitchen with my granny panties burning in the sink and try to decide what I’m actually asking for.

Twenty-five years with Dave fit inside a thousand ordinary things. Reading in the same room. His hand on my shoulder when he passed my chair. Somebody else in the kitchen. Someone whose stories I already knew. Someone who knew mine. Someone beside me often enough that being known became ordinary.

That is what I want. Not Dave returned to me or a replacement built to the right specifications. I don’t want some impossible man manufactured to agree with me.

I want the kind of life I had when another person was woven through the ordinary parts of it.

The flame reaches another inch of fabric.

“I wish I could have what I had with Dave.”

The words sound much smaller in the kitchen than they did in my head. Every instinct I have tells me to improve them. Define the terms. Specify what I mean. Add enough qualifications that the universe, if it happens to be listening, can’t possibly misunderstand the request.

I don’t.

For once, I let wanting something be enough.

A second passes.

Then another.

Nothing.

A laugh nearly escapes me. I have set fire to a perfectly serviceable pair of underwear for no reason at all.

Then the flame stops moving.

It doesn’t go out. It holds in place, a narrow orange point standing straight above the fabric without flickering even though the vent over the stove is moving enough air to lift the hair near my temple.

My hand goes to the faucet.

Before I touch it, the flame bends.

Not sideways.

Down, toward the basket.

I freeze.

Nothing connects the basket to the fire except a few feet of kitchen air. The flame leans farther over the edge of the sink.

A faint creak comes from the floor.