The Candle Wax Incident
Brienna Jenkins
David Willson
English 201, M/W
28 August, 2013
The Candle Wax Incident
I would never be so presumptuous as to assert that nobody but me has problems. I understand, in fact, that not only does everyone have problems, but that most people have bigger problems and more problems than I myself would care to imagine. I do believe, however, I can safely say that nobody else has my problems. The singularity with which I create extra work for myself is its own idiosyncrasy. A prime example of the peculiar situations that so often plague me came about when I took the notion to treat myself to a candle-lit bath. Now, I don’t typically like a bath. Given the choice, I much prefer a shower. This particular evening was different, though, because I was tired and there was some tension in my ribs and back that I hoped to relieve by means of a long, luxurious soak in a steaming tub. The candle, despite being unscented, seemed like a nice touch. I ran my bath with Epsom salts because I don’t care for bubble bath any more than I like the bath itself, lit my candle, turned out the lights, and got in the tub. Steam wafted up around me and the dim glow of my candle flickered somnolently. I took a deep breath. I can’t say how much time passed, but when I awoke I was cold, wet, and unable to see. Opening my eyes did little to improve my vision, and it was several seconds before I understood where I was and why I was naked. A faint beam of moonlight filtering through my window allowed my to drip my way over to the door and grope the wall for the switch I knew would shed some light on the situation. I flipped it and turned to my sink. I screamed. I recovered my composure and stuck my tongue out at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, annoyed at it for startling me. Satisfied, I again regarded my sink. On the sink sat a candlestick holder in perfect condition. Like me, the candleholder was naked. My candle was gone, or, more
David Willson
English 201, M/W
28 August, 2013
The Candle Wax Incident
I would never be so presumptuous as to assert that nobody but me has problems. I understand, in fact, that not only does everyone have problems, but that most people have bigger problems and more problems than I myself would care to imagine. I do believe, however, I can safely say that nobody else has my problems. The singularity with which I create extra work for myself is its own idiosyncrasy. A prime example of the peculiar situations that so often plague me came about when I took the notion to treat myself to a candle-lit bath. Now, I don’t typically like a bath. Given the choice, I much prefer a shower. This particular evening was different, though, because I was tired and there was some tension in my ribs and back that I hoped to relieve by means of a long, luxurious soak in a steaming tub. The candle, despite being unscented, seemed like a nice touch. I ran my bath with Epsom salts because I don’t care for bubble bath any more than I like the bath itself, lit my candle, turned out the lights, and got in the tub. Steam wafted up around me and the dim glow of my candle flickered somnolently. I took a deep breath. I can’t say how much time passed, but when I awoke I was cold, wet, and unable to see. Opening my eyes did little to improve my vision, and it was several seconds before I understood where I was and why I was naked. A faint beam of moonlight filtering through my window allowed my to drip my way over to the door and grope the wall for the switch I knew would shed some light on the situation. I flipped it and turned to my sink. I screamed. I recovered my composure and stuck my tongue out at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, annoyed at it for startling me. Satisfied, I again regarded my sink. On the sink sat a candlestick holder in perfect condition. Like me, the candleholder was naked. My candle was gone, or, more