Immolation, by Susan Tepper
There was a hole when you left the secret marriage. I tried filling it with gas-soaked newspapers (flammable), oil-stained rags (flammable), lit candles (quite flammable), and a pipe bomb kit I bought off the Net. But you were gone in such a flurry of winter flakes and I sat at my table and the bread tasted stale. I ignored butter. It seemed a luxury or worse a sense of the cream rising. Butter in many wars is a rationed item. Are we at war? I tried not to think about you in your fatigues, a soldier about to embark on another secret mission when this secret remains unsolved. There is nothing worse than one cup in the drainboard. I tried staying busy, keeping the secret going on my own. Ever try that? The thing is there were hugs and love up to the dying hour. I never saw it coming. It rose up red and licking its flaming lips at my heels.
