Her House of Bats

This house. He felt as if he knew it. The colours were the same as other houses he'd followed her through. The outdoor walls the same sunset yellow, the kitchen counters the same black and white marble. He didn't have to wonder which drawer held the cutlery. He'd never been here before but standing in the middle of the kitchen he could close his hands and reach out to find a spoon to stir heaped spoonfulls of sugar into his black coffee.

How strange to be here without her. How strange to be following her path across the world but not crossing paths, just inhabiting her discarded shells. She built homes to leave them.

He walked onto the balcony where she might have sipped orange juice in the mornings as she mumbled a list of things that needed to be done. The house behind him was pitch black. The power had gone for the night, perhaps the week

High pitched squeeks and occasional drafts alerted him to bats sweeping past in their hunt of mosquitos and moths. As expected, he found a candle on the corner where the balustrade turned back towards the body of the house. The first two flicks of the flint on the hotel bar lighter produced only sparks so he turned the gas release all the way. On the second attempt a thin flame flew out as the fire tried to catch up with the runaway gas.

The candle lit, he held it over his head. Powdery moths and insects with imprecise flight had been floating aimlessly through the night. The candle light focused their dithering as they redirected their path towards the achievable, consuming moon. Now the candle flickered in the bats black eyes. As the insects came at his candle, the bats swirled around him chirping.