Honestly, she picked it up to light her cigar. It was something to do to get through the ride home, the pull and puff, while he sat there silent, and staring out the window. But, she had the sudden urge to grab a corner of his crisp, white shirt, hold the lighter down, and spark the flame.
He’d be too mad to notice right away, but then he’d feel the hot tinge on his skin or inhaled the stench of burning cotton, whichever came first. And by then, he’d have no recourse but fanning, which wouldn’t get him anywhere, or screaming, and she’d only act like she didn’t hear him.
She made sure she drank all the water first, so he wouldn’t even have that, the mean bastard. He’d sear, burn slow, stink fast and she’d pull over and walk the rest of the way home. Damn the brand new car.
She shrugged, turned up Lenny Kravitz and lit her cigar. It had sounded good anyway. Almost as good as finishing the cigar, then putting it out on his bald head.