A Flame That Burns Through Time

A Redheaded Woman . . .

It was 1988. The world was still turning under a hazy sky of Reaganomics and television static. Noah Savett, artist, drifter, and reluctant guest, found himself seated among white plastic chairs at the wedding of his dear friend Marcus Thompson. This was Marcus’s third wife, a woman with blonde ambition and a smile as polished as her vows. Noah attended alone, as he often did, more out of habit than preference, hoping the universe might toss a friendly face his way amidst the sea of pastels and perfumed boredom.

The ceremony unfolded with mechanical grace, a puppet show of sincerity and lace. Noah slouched in his seat, one leg stretched out lazily, the other crossed beneath it, his curly hair tumbling across his forehead as if it too had grown weary of the occasion.

“These ceremonies are always the same,” Noah thought. A rehearsed dance of promises whispered under an indifferent sky. His eyes drifted over the crowd until they landed on her— a young redheaded woman sitting several rows ahead.

She didn’t see him, not yet, and that irked him. The flame of her hair burned against the sterile backdrop of white chairs and green grass. He wondered who she was. A cousin? A friend? Someone’s third wife-to-be? No matter. He decided then and there that she should see him.

Noah shifted in his chair, loud enough for the plastic to creak beneath him. A small rebellion against the silence of the vows. Nothing. Her back remained resolute. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, then fished a coin from his pocket, tossing it into the air with a theatrical flick. It caught the sun and spun like a miniature solar flare before landing on the ground with a soft clink.

She turned.

Their eyes met.

For a moment, the world dissolved—the white chairs, the vows, the orchestrated affection of the bride and groom—all faded into a silent tableau.

"I never liked redheads," thought Noah, a wry smile curling at the edge of his lips. "But I do like women."

Later, at the reception, Noah leaned against the bar, his elbow resting on the polished wood, a glass of bourbon in hand. He had no intention of seeking her out, and yet, here she was. The redhead. She approached with a half-smile, the kind that suggests mischief or curiosity or both.

“Hi,” she said simply, sliding onto the stool beside him.

“Noah Savett,” he offered, raising his glass in a casual salute.

“Sophie Johnson.”

Their conversation unfolded like an unscripted play. She made Noah laugh—a rare thing. He intrigued her, though she couldn't quite pin down why. There was no spark of lust, no magnetic pull of desire. Instead, something else took root between them, something subtler. A curiosity.

Noah, ever the gentleman of unconventional means, ordered her a glass of wine. She drank it quickly, without ceremony or hesitation, and he ordered another.

“Would you like to come back to my apartment?” Noah asked, not out of lust but out of habit, the artist’s reflex to extend the night.

Sophie laughed, a soft, melodic sound. “No. But maybe a late-night diner?”

They never made it to the diner.

The night ended at Noah’s sculpture studio, a cavernous space filled with the ghosts of his creations—twisted metal, forged dreams, and the scent of iron and sweat. Sophie wandered through the room as if it were a gallery, her fingers grazing the cool, smooth surfaces of his work.

“I’ve never seen metal like this,” she murmured. “So smooth. So... alive.”

Her hand lingered on a piece, a flowing structure that seemed to defy the rigidity of its material. Her eyes lifted to meet Noah’s.

“You like it?” he asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“It’s all so lovely,” Sophie said softly. “Get me some wine, Noah. I think we’re going to be friends for a long time.”

And so it began — a friendship forged in metal and wine, under the quiet hum of a studio where the world outside ceased to matter.