The Night Igniter

Nine twenty-seven, second floor of a bar, forty people and not one table lit up. You take a drink at the counter, sweep the room once, and see all of it: the just-broken-up couple pretending to chat, the new girl no one's gone over to, the host who wants to toast and can't find the start. You walk to the middle and say, a notch louder than usual, let me tell you the most embarrassing thing that happened to me lately, and the one being laughed at is you. By eleven nobody remembers you lit the fire, but everyone remembers the night was good. You don't analyze a room. You feel its temperature, and with a word you can change it. A full moon under neon owns the whole sky it hangs in. Aldebaran is the bull's red eye, burning outward for billions of years without rest. Just once, let a room stay warm a while without you having to be the match.