They were sitting around the patio table beneath the fawning summer trees: Phil, his wife Manda, and her lover Dom Traynor, who had come over for dinner while his wife was away. Manda had prepared a sumptuous meal, as ever, and kept the conversation bubbling, topping up the lulls like champagne flutes. She was always in her element when entertaining. 

Phil was well aware of the true nature of his wife’s “friendship” with Dom. As long as it didn’t disrupt their marriage, however, he saw no reason to confront her about it. He worked hard, they had three kids, he liked his life. Why ignite a bomb fuse? He knew full well he’d neglected Manda emotionally over the years, so he was fine with turning a blind eye now. She always maintained the utmost decorum, outwardly.

Having served the coffees, Manda settled back into her wicker armchair with a satisfied smile. While all three admired the garden view, Dom extracted a cigar from his blazer and cut the end. Fireflies danced in the night air; moonlight glinted off the oily surface of the swimming pool. Dom leaned across the table to offer Phil a cigar.

“No, thanks,” he said, waving it away. “I don’t smoke.”

“Go on, darling,” Manda said. “You could have one this once.”

“I don’t smoke,” Phil said, bemused. Manda’s lips tightened. Dom leaned back and lit his cigar. Smoke curled away and melted into the darkness.

“Can you help me with the plates,” Manda muttered to Phil. As she had already gathered up the china and silverware from her side of the table, Phil picked up his plate and followed her into the kitchen.

“Why couldn’t you just take the cigar? Just to be sociable,” she hissed, rounding on him.

“Manda, I don’t smoke,” he said again, incredulous. “I don’t want one.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about being sociable.”

Feeling the heat rise in his chest, Phil turned and went back outside to the patio, Manda hot on his heels. Dom was flicking a thick end of cigar ash into the shrubbery, his feet up on a neighbouring chair.

“Go and find an ashtray,” Manda instructed Phil, who wandered back into the house and returned with a heavy crystal bowl from the library. The scent from the cigar was thick as woodsmoke. Phil cleared his throat as he settled back into his seat and wondered how long he should wait before excusing himself to watch the evening news. Even Manda couldn’t help but give in to a restrained cough.

Behind Dom, a grey plume of smoke thickened from within the ornamental hedge, becoming fully apparent only when a crackle of flame leapt out of the darkness, quickly licking at the drooping foliage of the surrounding trees. Manda shrieked as Dom lurched from his chair, knocking it over, while Phil snatched up his phone to dial emergency services.

The fire truck arrived in minutes, blaring its horn down the sweeping semicircular driveway and screeching to a halt beside the tower of burning pines. The trees beside the house now formed a single flaming torch, wrathfully licking the clapboard siding while Manda wailed and clutched her face. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dom muttered repeatedly, looking stricken, while Phil stood by grimly and watched the firemen swarming between their truck and the inferno, yelling and training their hoses upon the blaze.

“Well,” Phil said, turning to his wife. Ash, floating around them like snowflakes, had settled on her coiffed hair and turned it grey. “This is sociable.”

*

Dana Harris has published short fiction on Quick Brown Fox and recently completed the University of Toronto’s Creative Writing Certificate. Alongside her day job as a paralegal, she is currently working on a post-apocalyptic romance novel. She lives in Toronto.