The fire spits and hisses on this autumn eve and there's a hollow roar behind that pulls the spent flame's breath out into the night. Exhausted, the carpenter sits beside me feeding his scraps to the stove and the damp of my back begs me to turn and toast it. The taut of my face too long toward the heat rounds, to find him loose and smiling. The fire does this to us, he says. His leg is not a soft pillow but the tenderness I feel when he strokes my hair is more comfortable than any down and warms me through. Let the cold drizzle. We have built fire inside tonight and piled it for a slow burn.