The Fire Triangle
“Gone on”, Francois said, “Strike the match. Light the fire. Allez, allez”. We were camping in France. I was sixteen. I told Francois I was eighteen. We needed three things: Heat. Fuel and an oxidizer, a catalyst. He had sweet lips. I wore cut-off jeans. Something must ignite. The fire triangle. The tetrahedron of life. The history teacher said civilized man was born from the first flame. I needed to know; I raised my hand to the sky, words like sparks, “But sir, who collected the wood?” I struck the match; I kissed Francois. Black-body radiation. Organic matter glowed. Life burnt.