citronella candle

by Pete Mitchell

Jenny

A welcome breeze blew, lifting the scent of the candle across the yard. Citronella was meant to keep the mosquitoes away. The candle flared, the only light outside, now all his mates have gone.

Bottles glistened where they had been carelessly strewn across the lawn. Gavin was so proud of his lawn I’m surprised he didn’t have a go at the guys, the way they’d disrespected it. I stooped and dropped another few empties into the bag that I dragged behind me. What would the neighbours think if they saw all the empties scattered across the yard.

The grass is cool and damp under my feet. I tip the empties into the recycling bin. They clatter and I return to collect another load. The BBQ is cold now, the flames that made the sausages burst their skins and jet fat into the fire are now gone. The plate is cool and smeared with grease and the charred remnants of their meal. I scrub at it. The wire brush rasps like a smoker’s wheeze. I reckon I’ll be cleaning this lot up for another twenty minutes. Then I’ll sweep and do the dishes. It’ll be two before I get to bed.

The citronella candle burns on the outdoor table, its flame steady, and obdurate against the breeze. A large moth circles the candle—erratic and desperate. It flies in an irregular pattern as if it is frightened by the heat, while being drawn to the light. I watch the moth for a moment. It’s beautiful in a way. Its dull brown fragile wings catch the light every now and then as it banks towards the flame transforming it into something shimmering and shiny. An iridescent flare of dust sparkles in the light.  The moth is persistent. Illogical. It must know it is risking harm, and yet it can’t stop. It won’t stop. It continues, spiralling ever closer.

I glance through the glass sliding door. Gavin is snoring on the lounge; one arm flung over his eyes like he’s shielding himself from the world. The TV flickers silently, it’s playing some late-night rubbish from the shopping channel, casting blue shadows across his body. I used to think that that body was comforting—alluring. A strong chest to rest my head on. Now he looks like a middle-aged monument to sloth.

We met when I was sixteen. He had a V8 and a mullet, and I thought he was the most exciting thing I’d ever seen. My mother warned me, of course. ‘He’s just a petty suburban hood. You’re too young to be running around with the likes of him. He’ll use you and throw you away,’ But I was drawn to him. I thought he was my ticket out of a life of suburban mediocrity.

Back then, danger felt like freedom. He’d rev the Torana outside my house, and I’d climb out the window, barefoot and breathless, heart pounding like a drum – ready to take on whatever life threw at us. We’d drive nowhere fast, windows down, music loud with the world blurring past us. Bog laps in the city and home via the beach. I felt like I was flying. I thought that it was love.

We married young. Too young. The kids came quickly—two boys, loud and wild, with his eyes and my hair. I threw myself into motherhood like it was my solitary purpose. He worked. He drank. He laughed too loud and I cried in silence, too often.

He said I was too soft on the boys. ‘They need to toughen up. You’re gonna make ‘em soft,’ he’d chide me, but those kids gave my life purpose. How couldn’t I spoil them? I loved those kids.

Now the boys are off our hands. One is in Melbourne, the other in the Northern Territory. They call sometimes. They send occasional photos, chronicling their lives, their loves. I see myself in their partners—women with strong backs and tired eyes. I wonder what they make of me?

With the kids gone I’ve carved myself some space. A kind of independence. I go to Pilates now and I read more books. I read stories of strong women with complex lives who carve themselves fairy tale endings. I’ve started painting again—small canvases, water colours of country scenes and horses. I could go back to work I suppose, but it’s been such a long time. What would I do? Then, I’d have some money of my own. Our money is his money. Gavin has raised my housekeeping, but it doesn’t feel the same.

The moth flies closer to the candle. Its wing clips the flame sending out a fluorescent flare. Its flight becomes more erratic. It flutters and disappears into the darkness, out of the candle’s glow, but is soon back again. I know the dance of the moth.

He stirs on the lounge, snorts, turns and settles again. He mumbles something I can’t make out. I wonder if he is dreaming. I wonder if I feature in any of his dreams.

The moth is relentless. Surely it understands that its passion for the flame is not reciprocated.

I think about what my life has become. I need to have space to be me. I need to grow. To really grow – not just grow old and tired. I’m tired of being invisible. I can see what my life has become. First my life was his, then it was the kids. Now I need my life to be for me.

The moth dives into the flame again. This time, it is damaged beyond recuperation. It flutters, falling to the grass. I can see it struggling, flickering, hopelessly trying to fly, but its wings are burnt. I walk over and step on it, rubbing it into the grass.

Inside, Gavin shifts again. I hear the creak of the lounge, the soft grunt of his sleep. I could wake him. I could tell him I’m leaving. Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow, I’ll just walk away and leave him to it. I could pack a bag and drive. Drive until the road runs out. But I don’t. Not yet. I turn to the candle and think, why should I wait. Why not tell him now. I pick up a cask of rose, sit and pour myself a glass. I sit in the dark and watch the flame.

Finally, I walk towards the glass door. He rouses. He senses me and sits up. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ I say.  He looks into my eyes and he suddenly he seems awake.

Gavin

A welcome breeze blew, lifting the scent of the candle across the yard. Citronella was meant to keep the mosquitoes away. The candle flared, the only light outside, now all my mates have gone.

I lay my head on the lounge. I shift and hang my arm over my eyes to block the flicker of the telly. I should turn it off, but I like the hum. White noise. It fills the silence. Outside, I hear her scraping the BBQ again. That wire brush sound—rasping rhythmically. She always cleans it to a ridiculous degree. It’s like a ritual with her. She scrubs it so hard she removes all the grease that keeps it from rusting. I tell her, but she won’t listen. She’s intent on removing the BBQ’s flavour.

I roll onto my side. The beer sits heavy in my belly. Probably had a few too many again. I’ll feel it in the morning. I could get up and give her a hand with the cleaning up. She’d only tell me I was doing it wrong and she’d do it all over again herself. So, there’s no point really. I’ve done my bit. I cooked the snags. They turned out just the way I like them. I was the perfect host. I ensured the boys were never short a drink. It’s her turn now.

I wished shed go about it with a bit less noise though. The racket she makes when she tips the empties into the recycling bin will wake up the neighbours. I could have done that tomorrow, but she won’t be told.

I peer below my arm and see that the citronella candle is still burning. I can taste it wafting in the door—sharp, lemony. A moth’s doing its dance around the flame. Bloody idiot of a thing. They never learn. They must have seen their kind immolate themselves before.

‘Stupid bloody moths,’ I say aloud. But she hasn’t heard me. Or if she has, she doesn’t react. She just keeps cleaning. I watch her out of one eye for a moment. Her back’s straighter than it used to be. She’s tied back her hair. She knows I like it down. She looks... different. Not younger. Not older. Just, different, like she’s more determined or something.

I remember when she used to look at me like I was her whole world. Sixteen, she was. Climbed out her bedroom window like a thief, heels clasped in her hands. I miss that look in her eyes. I’d rev the V8 and she’d come running. Geez I loved that car. A Torana GTR XU-1 in ‘Yellow Dolly’. It’d be worth more than a hundred grand now. She loved that car. She loved me too, back then, I reckon.

‘You just about done out here?’ I call.

‘Yeah, Gav.’ she says. I don’t know if she even heard the question.

She always says that, but I know she’ll be another hour or two before she goes to bed.

I reach out to the coffee table. The beer’s a little warm now. Too good to waste it though. I set the empty down and stare out. I can see she’s looking at the moth circling the candle.  It’s kind of beautiful, in a stupid way. Wings catching the light. Shiny. Persistent. Dumb. It must know it’s doing itself harm, but it won’t stop. It’ll burn itself to ash before it gives up.

We married young. Too young, maybe. But it felt right. She was wild, looking for excitement, and I was there to give it to her. The boys came fast—James and Bruce. Good kids. Loud and messy. She was a great mum. But she was too soft on those kids. They could have used some toughening up. Whenever I stepped in to give it to them, she’d turn on me. ‘You’re too hard on them Gav, they’re only kids.’ She was like a broken record. There was no doubt where her love resided.

Its quieter now with the kids are gone. They’re doing alright. James is over in Melbourne and last I heard Bruce was somewhere out of Darwin. It’s just Jenny and me now. The house is too silent now. Good to have the mates around every now and then to liven the place up.

She’s been different lately. Reading books with weird titles. Going to yoga or something. And painting. I can’t remember her ever painting. I found one of her canvases in the laundry. Not too bad really but God knows what she’s hoping to get from it. I told her it was alright – got to encourage her I suppose.

I can see her sitting out there now. She’s found herself a glass of wine. She’s staring at that moth. I know that look. She’s thinking. Planning. She gets quiet when she carries on like that.

‘You remember that first night at the beach? Meatloaf was on the radio?’ she asked me once, out of the blue.

‘Sure.’ I said, trying to recall. ‘What about it?’

‘You said you’d never met anyone like me.’

I shrugged. ‘Yeah. I meant it, then’

She looked disappointed. Like she wanted me to say something different. Like she needed me to say I loved her again.

I don’t say things like that anymore. I shouldn’t have to say things like that anymore. She should know. What’s the point? We’re here. We’ve made a good life. We’re comfortable.  We’ll be alright. Surely that’s enough?

She’s talking again. She’s standing at the door with the glass, refilled, in her hand.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she says and I am suddenly I’m awake. I know that tone.

‘’About what?’

‘I’m thinking of going away for a bit’

She’s said things like this before, like a simmering threat. Like she’s testing me, judging how I’ll respond. I don’t reply immediately. Sometimes I let it pass. Sometimes I know if I respond too quick it will only get her riled. She always stays.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Maybe Melbourne. I could stay with Jamie for a bit. It would be nice to see the grandkids.’

I finish the warm beer. ‘You wouldn’t last a week.’

‘I might.’ she says

She’s quiet. She turns to the citronella candle. I see the moth has disappeared.

‘I’m not happy,’ she says.

‘What have you got to be unhappy about? Everyone doesn’t need to be running around happy all the time you know.’

‘I’m not happy, but I think I could be. I deserve to be. I’ve worked hard. I’ve done my time”

I look at her. Really look. She’s not bluffing. Not this time.

‘You make it sound like you’ve been in jail.’

‘Maybe that’s how I feel.’

I don’t know what to say. So, I say nothing.

‘I loved you,’ she says. ‘I love the boys and the grandkids.’

‘I know.’

She stares at me and says ‘I don’t think I do anymore.’

That one stings. But I don’t show it. I don’t know how to reply.

‘You’ll come back. You always do.’ He said, trying to convince himself as much as her.

I want to stop her. I want to tell her something that matters. I want her to realise what she’s intent on throwing away. But the words don’t come. I don’t know what to say.

I fall back on the lounge as she silently walks past me to the bedroom.

In the morning, I awake and stretch. The lounge wasn’t good for my back. An empty bottle lies at my feet. Outside the candle is nothing but a blackened stump.

I call out. ‘Jen.’ But the house is silent.

Photo of Pete Mitchell

BIO: Pete Mitchell is an Australian writer whose work explores domestic realism, emotional dislocation, and the quiet tensions of ordinary lives. His fiction has appeared in literary journals such as Jimmy Hornet and the Ultramarine Review and in the national newspaper The Weekend Australian. His first novel ‘Darwin’s Wake’ was followed by his collection of shorts stories ‘Read My Shorts’. He was the 2025 recipient of the Margaret River Prize for short fiction. He is currently working on several literary projects. https://petemitchell.com.au