I finished my glass and put it down on the counter. Celia took it as a challenge to do the same with hers. She wiped her mouth with her fingertips when she was done. I poured us more. “How did you learn all the underhanded, sneaky stuff you know?” Celia asked. “T have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I said coyly. “You're smarter than you let on to just about anybody.” “Me?” I said. Celia was starting to get goose bumps, so I suggested we go back into the living room, where it was warmer. The desert winds had swooped in and turned this June night into a chilly one. When I started to get cold, too, I asked her if she knew how to make a fire. “T’ve seen people do it,” she said, shrugging. “Me too. I’ve seen Don do it. But I’ve never done it.” “We can do it,” she said. “We can do anything.” “All right!” I said. “You go open another bottle of wine, and I'll start trying to guess how to get it started.” “Great idea!” Celia flung the blanket off her shoulders and ran into the kitchen. I knelt down in front of the fireplace and started poking the ashes. And then I took two logs and laid them perpendicular to each other. “We need newspaper,” she said when she came back. “And I’ve decided there’s no point in glasses anymore.” I looked up to see her swigging the wine out of the bottle. I laughed, grabbed the newspaper off the table, and threw it in. “Even better!” I said, and I ran upstairs and grabbed the copy of Sub Rosa that had called me a cold bitch. I raced back down to show her. “We'll burn this!” I threw the magazine into the fireplace and lit a match. “Do it!” she said. “Burn those jerks.” The flame curled the pages, held steady for a moment, and then sputtered out. I lit another match and threw it in.