A story could be written on that particular lighter. A story could be written on each cigarette lit up by that lighter. Then on all the lighters. And all the cigarettes.
But that lighter was purple. Like the book: the color purple. Only one cigarette has been flames by that one. No. Two. Two cigarettes. At the same time with a small interval of time that was passing through the black hole.
And that’s that. No story could be written on that lighter. No more cigarettes to be ignited by this one. It’s going in the archives without any spark. Or flame. Or shadow. Or anyone to blame.
There’s no story.
No touch.
No tip.
No spark.
No tobacco.
Hence, no ash.
Nothing for this lighter.
Only history of an untold story.
