You pick a place and that's where I'll be

He must have worked on that fire for hours. I could hear him swearing at the dying flame or gathering more straw to start all over again. I made a joke about asking a boyscout for help. They had a tent villiage by the water with portable gas stoves and plastic cylinders up in the trees to measure rain water. Fathers and sons sat around the campfire no doubt telling ghost stories and planning upcomming hikes. It must have been thirty five degrees and I was wearing my red hat for the second day. BJ's mom had stuffed a copy of Bon Apetit into my stocking and I took the chance to read the article about braised short ribs while my mountain man of a boyfriend worked at his fire. When I wasn't in the tent, I helped with stokeing the flames and making turkey sandwiches. We drank the Jack Daniels we picked up in Lynchburg out of red plastic cups and talked about vacation. I walked over several times and kissed his forehead in an attempt to soften the blow of his slow yet undeniable failure. I missed the fire that night. It started sometime after I had gone to sleep but it served as warmth on the coldest of nights. When I woke up there was only one log left and a half of a bottle of whiskey. We made it through the night on account of the flame I never saw.