"Will you hold this for me?" He handed her the can of petrol. He took ten, or so, steps away from her. "Oh damn, damn, damn." He walked back over to her. He took the petrol tin out of her hands, unscrewed the lid, tossed it over his shoulder and handed her back the petrol tin.
He walked the same distance away from her again.
"You okay?" he said.
"Yes," she said nervously. "What are we doing?"
"Just hold the tin out in front of you." She held it up with both hands. "Don't worry," he said.
He took a box of matches out of his jean's pocket.
"What are you going to do with those?" she asked.
"Oh just a little experiment, hold still."
He bent down and picked up a bottle of beer that was on the ground by his feet. "Just a little something to settle my nervous," he said with a half-formed smile on his face.
He held the box by its ends, between his thumb and ring finger on his left hand. He placed the match, phosphorous down, on the striking side. He lined it up with the petrol can, by closing his left eye and focussing through his right eye only. He flicked the match hard by flicking it with his pointer finger and his thumb on his right hand.
The match struck as it flicked off the side of the box and lit as it flew through the air, making a hissing sound as the phosphorous ignited.
The burnt end of the match struck her thigh, where it stung like a bee sting.
“Ouch,” she flinched by pulling her leg off the ground.
“Keep still,” he said. “You’re spilling it.” The petrol had splashed out of the open tin and onto her hands.
He flicked another match; it stung her leg again.
“Ooucch,” she squealed. She flung the can of petrol to the ground. “I’m not doing this anymore.” She started to run back down the path towards the house.
He flicked another match.
Woof!
No comments:
Post a Comment