It was a pleasure to burn.
All things, it was.
Paper. Incense. Even skin.
Yes, especially skin.
They all had particular smells- those things which he burned. Paper smelled of ash and dried, hot trees, as in the desert, the heat so thick and juicy you could drink it, pour it inside of you, fill yourself with warmth in a way which standing in front of a fire, rubbing your hands together did not even thouch.
Incense- he supposed it ought to be different, depending on the smell. He only ever bought sandalwood, nothing else and so he didn't really know what the others smelled like. Vanilla and pumpkin spice and evergreen and all those other natural flavors which had been manufactured for him, specifically for him to destroy if only for one fleeting moment of pleasure.
Incense did not impress him very much, not as much as-
They shifted and he smiled. Finally awakening. Awakening to an ugliness. The shifting sheets, like sheefs of paper as he rummaged through his desk, looking for a lighter, and a cigarette to.
He lit it. This burning, he too enjoyed, although in a different way. Smoke he could not appreciate- he did not like cloying, overpowering scent, sprayed like too much perfume. It irritated him, his nostrils, his lungs.
Skin smoked, a little, but not very much.
It was his favorite thing to burn.
They shuffled, moaned and his own skin tensed, no- the muscles beneath it- he was preparing, his muscles preparing, moving, fluid, reaching out, burning-