Heartbreaker by Maryse Meijer

as she twisted between my thumb and forefinger, not knowing then what she would be like, if she would love me, or if I would love her—I didn’t even know if she would be a she. That was left to fate. But right away I knew she would last. I could see it, how much she wanted it, as she strained toward the forest floor.
    Leaping from my hand she shot through the parched undergrowth, becoming first a molten red line, then a skirt of orange, then rising, in an instant, into slender stalks of gold a foot high: gorgeous. She was a she, I thought, definitely.
    Hello, John, she crackled, stroking me with her smoking fingers; I held out my hands and returned her caresses, delighted by the fine black skin she laid on top of my own sweating one.
    Hungry? I asked.
    Yes, she sighed, licking her way up the first tree.
    There’s plenty, I assured her. All for you.
    Good, she whooshed, as the wind combed her eastward into the next dry crown of parched pine: Good good. Her heat sucked my eyes dry, toasted the hair on my head. Whispering encouragement I lay belly-down in the dirt, keeping as close to her as I could. Enchanting! I cried as she tossed her flames higher into the night sky. Beautiful! Well done! She had the wind, and she was strong; when I heard the first sirens advance, deep in the city below us, she had already grown far beyond my field of vision.
    Darling, I gasped, ravished, grinning: Run.
    *   *   *
    The forest threw itself beneath her. That night she burned a thousand acres; the next night she took four times that number. She was relentless, voracious; she jumped fire lines like a girl skipping rope. The state, deep in a budget crisis, scrambled to rally its impoverished fire departments, but the predictions from the outset were dire; moving at fifteen miles an hour, burning at a thousand degrees, she was truly a wild thing. Most of us in the valley could see her flames from our doorsteps, and everyone everywhere in the city could see her smoke rolling over the sky. I kept my windows open, hoping to catch her scent; I drew hearts in the ash she sprinkled on the sill.
    John, she said, when you come tonight, bring me something.
    Anything. What would you like?
    Paper. Gas cans. Hairspray. Your clothes.
    Which ones? I asked, already plunging my hands into my closet, my drawers.
    All of them.
    Only in the first forty-eight hours could I still reach her by one of the secret paths not cordoned off, paths only she and I knew, though even then I had to be careful not to be seen; I drove with my lights off, parked my van off the road. I carried the gifts, in boxes, a half mile up to where she was just beginning to flicker into new territory. By the time I reached her I was panting inside my fire mask, my arms strengthless, jellied with pain, but I didn’t mind; it was worth anything to see her shimmering with delight over the boxes as I peeled back the flaps.
    Paper? I offered.
    Please, she snapped, and I fed a ream to her whole, watching as the pages were sucked high up into the air before flashing into flame. Next came the gas can, which I hurled as hard as I could; it touched the edge of her and burst. I whooped, lobbing the hairspray cans like grenades. The clothes I spread out in a neat heart shape, jeans and T-shirts and underwear and socks and shoes all braided together, a baseball cap in the center.
    These are for you, sweetheart, I said, and she rushed forward as I ran back, grasping the clothing in her eager fists. While she gobbled up my little tokens she was also plunging through the trees, and I pushed up the mask and put my forehead against the ground to feel how the earth shook beneath the tremendous boom and smack of exploding pine.
    Yes! I yelled. My lips had split; blood crept from the dry flesh and I sucked it. She was kissing me. This was the taste of her. I jerked my hips in the dirt.
    You are incredible, I said, her heat bearing down on my back. The forest floor was all ash, soft,