The Smell Of Fire (Vignette #1)

She clenches her fists together as she walks over the gravel. It smells like there's a fire coming from somewhere in the distance. Relaxing, smells like a camping trip, a long one, away from the rest of society. It doesn’t smell like it will ever turn into a traumatic, disastrous fire. But it’s not really about the smell, it’s more about what she thinks, on the gravel, and the smell is just there. The air around her doesn’t feel tense, like something’s about to happen. She’s not anxious, there’s no eratic tendencies to the way the day’s panned out. It just smells like fire. And it’s nice.
She unclenches her fists, pulls her cardigan so it covers her chest, rather than hanging loosely by her sides. She’s not cold. She’d just like to feel the comfort of something being wrapped around her. She moves her arms up to her shoulders, feels the bone along the top. The collarbone, then that small section, right in the middle of her chest, where the two collarbones meet. That’s where she’d like another hand to rest. But she's the only other person in view, and there’s a field next to her, corn plants. A broken wire fence. A hat that’s blown off someone’s head in the wind. Two cars drive by, one of them’s a ute, the other she’s already forgotten, wasn’t paying enough attention at that point in time.