They sat at each end of the couch and watched as the fire burned down so quiet on this winternight.I had a house light on for miles around, then he said, I think I'll fill the stove.It's getting time for bed.He looked up, I think I'll have some wine, how about you, she asked, and he declined.And Warren, she said, maybe just for tonight, let's fill the stove with birches and watchas the fire burns bright.How long has it been?I know it's quite a while, pour yourself half a glass and stay with me a little while.And Warren, he shook his head as if she'd made some kind of joke.Birches on a winter night, no, we'll fill the stove with oak, oak will burn as longand hot as a July afternoon, and birch will burn itself out by the rising of the moon.And you hate a cold house, same as me, am I right or not?All right, all right, that's true, she said, it was just a thought.Then she said, Warren, you do look tired, maybe you should go up to bed, I'll take careof the wood tonight, oak, he told her, oak, she said.Well, she listened to his footsteps as he climbed up the stairs, then she pulled a sweateron her and set a wine glass on the chair.She walked down cellar to the wood box, it was as cold as an ice chest, then climbedback up with four logs, each as white as a wedding dress.And she filled the stove and poured the wine, then she sat down on the floor.She curled her legs beneath her as the fire sprang to life once more, and it filled theroom with its hungry light, and it cracked as it drew air, and the shadows danced thejittery waltz like no one else was there.She stood up in the heat, she twirled around the room, and the shadows, they saw nothingbut a young girl on her honeymoon, and she knew the time, it would be short, soon thefire would start to fade.She thought of heat, she thought of time, she called it an even trade.