A Tell-Tale Burn

by Arina Oberoi (8)

BURNT!—burnt—very very dreadfully burnt. Not yet. But soon—very very soon. Either the person or the soft cotton, burnt to the crisp. But why will you say that this person is me? The flaming heat in my hand has sharpened, not dulled, my senses. Now let me tell you the caution and care with which I approached this wrinkled, lifeless cotton dress before me.

I cannot say how I noticed the lifeless figure of this dress. But once I had seen it, I was certain something must be done. Knowledge there was none. Experience there was none. That dress was my favorite—it would not be the one to scrunch up once worn. So I picked it up with great caution and laid it gently onto the clear white counter.

Now this is the point. You fancy me inexperienced. Those who are inexperienced—the last thing they should do is pick up an iron. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I approached—with what caution—with what fore- sight—with what dissimulation I went to work! Taking the long, gray wire and cautiously plugging it into the socket. Blue sparks erupted from the socket! Ha!—would an inexperienced person have done that right? The cracks and sizzles and pops of the iron heating up began. I laughed as the suspense rose. I pulled the dress straight on the white counter, so that no additional creases would be made. When I had waited a long time, I finally heard the pop of the iron. I grasped the handle, felt the heat tingle my skin, picked up the iron, and laid it onto the dress.

That was the time! There was no time to wait! It would burn the cloth! And only the inexperienced do that! I shifted the iron from here to there and there to here. No crease would be left behind! Up—down, down—up, side—side! And there it was— done. The dress was as smooth as silk. Beautiful.