A crackling bonfire on a windblown beach. Chilly autumn sun, coarse grass under bare feet, a dog asleep nearby. Just me and a man I have no romantic feelings towards, a day of work, and a bonfire made only for the practical purpose of burning garden debris.
That's when we dig out an old packet of marshmallows from the back of a kitchen cupboard. They are sticky and too sweet and taste heavenly when toasted over an open fire. The wind chills my cheeks, I creep closer to the heat of burning spruce branches. We tell each other travel memories over the smell of burnt sugar.
A party is born.
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