He always managed to lose it, blaming her even though it had merely slipped from his worn denim pocket and into the unexplored crevices of his 1991 pickup. It was what lit the cigarettes that he would put out on her pale skin. The same one lit her favorite candles, pumpkin spice masking the smell of his dirty smoke. The pungent stench of "I’m sorry" and "It won’t happen again" admits the dense, dark smoke in the air that polluted her lungs and lingered in her throat. There wasn’t any doubt that he was a Klepto, setting ablaze the innocence she once held, its ashes in the palms of her hands as she forgave too easily once again.