The candle wax hardened in moments, suspended in a state of dripping off the dining table. I'd made my point. It was hot, but I could stand it. It could be scraped off the wood, but not off the tablecloth. It solidified an inch off the edge, but not a bit more. The carpet was ruined, dinner was ruined, light smoke curlicued toward the ceiling. A chandelier hung, fake candles perched within it, each one with a flickering fake flame. It's a shame, the light they give off, that's all it does. It only lights a room.
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