Fire Flower

Fourth of July wasn't much of a holiday, really, as far as Peter was concerned. So much for independence and all that shit, given the prejudice that was pretty constantly shit on the Romani. But, it was a good excuse for alcohol and too much food and lighting shit on fire. Not even the asshole deputies or the sheriff had shown up to hassle him, so Peter was counting this as a win. Lynda had baked cookies, and there was chicken on a shitty little grill next to their steps as darkness claimed the sky. Out on the other side of town, you could hear the distant booms of the official fireworks show, but Peter couldn't be fucking bothered.

Instead, he had a lighter and a few grocery bags full of colorful explosions. He was waiting for the ones on the other side of town to stop, drinking a beer as he swung in the hammock to the crackle and pop and canon sounds as the finale crested. He was topless, barefoot in a pair of beat up jeans, and he swung to the ground after the last few echoes had faded, grabbing one of the bags off the hood of Lynda's car and taking a few paces out into the packed dirt clearing just against the tree line. It was a good night. Destiny and Lynda were discussing whatever shit it was that gypsy woman talked about -- men's cocks and women's tits and who cursed who, if you believed in that sort of thing.

Peter was sticking a Roman Candlestick into the dirt, a shake of his head at the fucking irony as he lit the fuse. Fucking balls of fire.