My candle count remains at three.

Mom used to have a collection of candles that rivalled a Catholic church. When I was little, I’d dip my fingertips in the melted wax that pooled around the wick of the candles. Mom did not like this. She forbade me from having candles in my room, but this was out of concern that I’d set the house on fire. Even into my teens, this candle ban was imposed upon me.

Jordi didn’t throw me much of a pity party when I shared my candle-deprived childhood with him. He made a face when I described my proclivity for dipping my fingers in hot wax and determined that it wasn’t a “kid thing,” as I insisted, but a “Laura thing.”

Please back me up in the comments.

Continue reading “Waxed out.” →