I remember I was so excited when Flare arrived that nearly pounced on her. Seeing that, my mother had flushed, shooting accusations of indecency.

Flare and I spent an afternoon wandering through the woods and returned just before dark. Instead of sharing a bed or a tent, we hopped into the car.

Flare drove us to a disused strip mall on the edge of Carp township. I was so muddled that I barely remembered the trip there. I just remember making out in the parking lot that was really more of a junkyard.

So great was my thirst that I didn't even mind the smell emanating from the jerry cans at our feet.

I was reaching for the buttons on her shorts when she nibbled on my lip. I moved to return the gesture when she pulled back.

Flare stopped a meter away and wagged a finger. "Not just yet."

I remember the curve of her figure in the car's headlights and her attire that had gotten a fair bit more revealing since the summers of our childhood.

"After we finish..." Flare smiled.

For a moment, I was uncertain. She was sharp because her next words washed it all away.

"Anything."

"Pardon?"

"Anything."

"What do you mean?"

She drew comfortably close and whispered, her lips brushing my ear. "I'm all yours; anything you want."

We worked together to lug the two jerry cans across to the mall.

It was several units long with an old Blockbuster, a crumbling convenience store, and trash everywhere. Our target was the rundown Greenside bowling alley which had a set of stairs leading directly into the basement.

Heading down, we discovered a retro-style establishment complete with nostalgic tiles, fake leather booths, and vintage trims. The eight lanes were filled with mouldy ceiling tiles and there wasn't a bowling ball in sight.

"I was thinking that we'd start at the back and work this way."

"Alright..."

We each took a can and marched down the lanes, sprinkling gasoline like we were watering a lawn. The waiting area was then doused, followed by the receptionist's desk, the staff rooms, the kitchens.

Flare ended it with a trail of gas up to the top of the stairs where we regrouped and shared eye contact.

"Go ahead," she said.

"You don't want to?"

"I'd love to." But she pressed the matchbox into my hand. "But I'd love it more if you did."

I clutched it with shaking fingers. "Maybe we should... Flare, I really don't kn—"

"For me," Flare said. She thrust against me, caught me in her carmine veil. Her fingers were moving with the confidence that mine lacked. "As I am for you."

I couldn't do anything else. I struck the match and cast it into the depths in a single motion. The abyss roared in return.

"Go! Go! Go!"

We bolted across the parking lot, just in time to see flames envelop the structure. Two cans of gas may not have been enough to cause a fireball, but it was sufficient to paint everything in brilliant red-orange.

"Oh shoot!" Flare hollered.

The rest of the building followed with the bowling alley. There was enough fire to blow off the windows and collapse the roof. There was enough heat to cause sweat to pour down my face from thirty paces.

I was completely flabbergasted.

That was even more so when Flare turned onto me, gasping in uncontrollable glee. Soon I was too—she had tantalizing immorality that could have ruined the most just of men.

In comparison, the rest of summer was horribly cold. It was the hottest season, but it felt like I was trudging through the Antarctic sheets. It was so frigid that I actually longed for school.

When the first day came, I returned to Flare where I felt the first warm in two months.

Junior year was an exciting one.

The night at the bowling alley had emboldened us. There were countless disused districts around the greater Toronto area, and Flare must have known them like the back of her hand.

The whole thing became a weekly affair.

I'd return home after a boring Friday in classes that I still couldn't care less about. Flare would return, all excited about some topic she was studying, and we'd spend a couple of hours working on our latest painting.

We'd make a simple dinner or get takeout from the nice Japanese restaurant a block down. Cuddling on the couch with satisfied bellies, we would watch a movie and get to know each other a bit better.

But instead of retreating to the bedroom like a normal couple, we would climb into her car that was filled with the perpetual stench of petrol.

While many might find the smell of gasoline irritating, I remember it as downright aphrodisiacal. I cannot forget the steamy nights in the car, inundated by the perfume of benzene that mixed with the Flare's own aroma—all while parked by a soon-to-be blazing building.

We went on so many magical excursions that we found methods to the beauty.

One of our favourite techniques was to fill milk jugs with gasoline. We'd take our garments that we were too aroused to wear, soak them in gas and use it as a wick. The plastic would hold for twenty minutes during which we'd skip away and await the beautiful eruption.

On another occasion, Flare discovered a formula for a flaming gel from who-knows-where.

In a trash can, we infused gasoline with Styrofoam—plates worked best; the coarser stuff didn't dissolve well. I remember painting the paste over a wooden utility pole on the outskirts of Pickering, laughing as both the pole and our indulgences went to the ground.

The whole experience was absolutely amazing.

But in many ways, my third year of university exaggerated everything, both the pleasures and the pain. When the weekend was over, I'd waddle to class, feeling like a lifetime convict.

I had reached the limits of my previous years of preparation. I was so far behind the material that on the occasions I did look up, the professor might as well have taught in Mandarin.

Instead of catching up like a responsible adult, I redoubled my sloth. I honestly could not bring myself to care. So, what if I did poorly? I loathed this crap; all the better if I didn't excel in it.

I came to realize that the only damn reason I still put up with it, the only reason I tortured myself in those stupid lecture hall seats, was to go home to her. School was the perfect excuse to stay by Flare's side.

So, I slouched deeper in my seat and kicked up my feet on the row below. When the again-broken A/C cast the room in an unbearable chill, I brought my own blanket and cushion.

Perhaps it was this disdain that drew the ire of Professor Stearn.

He was this balding, middle-aged Spaniard who kept himself in too-good shape, resembling a martial artist more than a professor. He was known as a scrupulous instructor who was also considerate towards each member of his CSC301H1 software engineering course.

Although he was an enthusiastic lecturer, he was also a stickler for discipline, and I was not surprised when his rough voice addressed me one day.

"Orson?"

It was after the lecture on agile development, as I had been scurrying from the lecture hall. I hadn't expected him to know my name. "Professor?"

"You'll see me in the next office hour, won't you?" It was more of a command than a question.

"I don't think I'd need to."

"I think you would." His gruffness sounded almost threatening.

Professor Stearn's office hours were on Monday afternoon, right after my last class of the day. I would have to stay after school and so, I had no plans to heed his recommendation.

Despite that, when I passed by the Sandford Fleming Building on my way to the apartment, I hesitated. Maybe it was the vestiges of my childhood obedience.

I found myself navigating to the third floor. Following directions from a friendly assistant professor, I arrived at Stearn's door. I knocked.

"Come in."

I pushed inwards.

It was the standard office you'd expect of a professor, with a mahogany desk topped by too many books. In a straight-backed chair next to the professor was a smiling woman in office attire. An open window let in a cold breeze.

I took the chair across from them.

"Orson." Professor Stearn beckoned me to shift closer. "I hadn't thought you'd show up."

I hadn't thought I would either.

"Do you know why I requested this meeting?"

It had been more of a demand than a request. "No idea."

"You must have some idea," he said. "You can't be that oblivious."

I said nothing.

Professor Stearn scowled. "Well, it has to do something with your performance."

I rolled my eyes. He was going to reprimand me for my academic negligence: I couldn't care less about that. I had heard it all too often. Maybe he'd give me a scolding. Professors seemed to like doing that.

But the next words were unexpected, coming from the woman. "We've looked through your records."

"What?"

"I'm one of your academic advisors, Paula," she explained. "Professor Stearn thought we might be able to help you."

"... I see."

Paula was scrolling through her laptop. "You were one of the more promising applicants of your year. Good grades in every course, and a perfect SAT." She stopped at a video file which she double-clicked.

On the screen was me, filmed with a dollar-store webcam and looking a lot younger. I cringed as I gave a monologue, full of stutter and disingenuity.

"You know what this is?"

"It's my video response. When I first applied."

Professor Stearn nodded, and we were quiet until the video finished playing. I expected them to make a comment, but they seemed satisfied that I had seen it.

Paula then pulled up some academic records next.

"Decent grades in the first-year courses. Top of the class in the CSCA48 and MAT137, you had learnt some of it before?"

"Yes."

"But then something happened in the second semester, didn't it?" She pointed at the right half of the screen.

I didn't respond this time.

Paula did not press the matter. "We don't have to get into it yet." She simply scrolled onto the next page. This included the second-year marks which left much to be desired; the second semester of that year was even worse.

The whole time, I sat quietly fuming. I did my best to be reserved, but I was absolutely infuriated.

Although they were presenting nothing about the facts, they did not have to shove it in my face. It was one thing to know that I was incapable, that I couldn't perform. It was quite another to be mocked—ridiculed for something that was torturing me every day.

Paula pressed forward. "Orson."

I must have adverted my gaze at some point. I looked up, doing my best not to cry in rage.

"As of this week, you are on academic probation. You may be dismissed if there is no change."

I didn't say anything.

Paula gave a reassuring smile. "We're here to talk to you about that. To be honest, I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing for you. Maybe this isn't the path for you and that's perfectly alright."

When I didn't respond again, Stearn came forward with his usual gruffness. "Here, Paula. Let me."

Paula objected: "Maybe we should take this slo—"

"Orson, I'm going to be frank with you." Stearn moved from his desk and crouched beside me. "You hate this course, don't you?"

I was too bitter to speak.

"Just nod or shake your head."

I nodded.

"I see it all too often. Too many youngsters join this discipline with dreams of wealth or—"

I had grit my teeth and the old man caught on to it instantly.

"—was it parental pressure? Something like that?"

I nodded.

"Well, Orson, listen. You should get out of here, as far away as your legs will take you. You're going to hate yourself every day that you stay."

My glare was burning. I did not need him to tell me that: I was the one living this frigid hell.

"I think you're a smart kid and you can excel in whatever you put your mind into." The professor ran a hand along his bearded face. "Tell me, Orson, what do you like?"

I shook my head.

"What does that mean?"

I shrugged; I swallowed.

"Words, dammit," the professor snapped.

"I-I don't know." I was crying despite myself.

His next lines were like bullets, fired one after another.

"Do you like music?"

"N-No, professor."

"Are you an athlete?"

"No, professor."

"Perhaps a scientist?"

"No, professor."

"A dancer, a cinematographer, a chef, an artist or a writer?"

I needed a moment with all that.

"Are you?"

"No, professor."

"And, do you want to be, do you want to be any of that?"

I couldn't answer—it might have been the unbearable indignation, or maybe the snot that coated my mouth.

"Orson." Stearn extended a finger against my chest. "Forget computer science, forget academics, forget whatever your parents want—you are at the crossroads of your future. Ask yourself this question: what are you passionate about."

His words pierced like a falling thunderbolt. And like a lightning, it shocked me into motion. I was out of there as fast as lightning too, ignoring the cries of the academic advisor.

Stearn might have meant well in his own way, but those words had dug too deep.

What was I passionate about?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I didn't like music; I didn't like sport; I didn't like science. Not math, not film, not history, not anything. I didn't even love to paint, not really. I only did it because she liked it—because she liked it.

No... there was one thing that I was passionate about although Professor Stearn might not approve.

And I desperately needed it right then.

I ran all the way back to the apartment, jaywalked when the light refused to change, and took the stairs when the elevator took forever.

I crashed through the door.

"Orson?"

"F-Flaa-re." I melted into her embrace and buried my face in her chest.

Flare gasped in surprise.

Then, I felt the rhythmic pats of her hand on my neck and I relished the familiar aroma on her skin.

Her voice was creamy: "It's alright."

Flare didn't complain, not about the sudden appearance nor the tears that soaked her blouse. She simply accepted me—she always accepted me.

When I felt better and let it all out, she simply listened to me—she always listened to me.

If not for her, I doubt I would have seen the next morning's sun. She stayed beside me, sprawled across the bed, for the whole night. Then, in the morning, she woke me with hot chocolate and homemade French toast.

I wolfed it down. "Thank you..."

"My pleasure."

We didn't share another word until it was time for classes. It was more than enough to share in each other's company, warmed by the morning sun through the apartment's windows.

We left together and Flare placed a hand on mine. "Tonight. If you're up to it."

"For sure."