Another Writing Exercise

There is a White Barn candle on my desk. It's not lit yet. The silver bottlecap top is crusty with soap scum. The label is peeling and wrinkled. Scent? Sparkling Limeade. It smells like a bathroom cleaner and burned wicks. When I look at this candle, I am reminded of pastel bungalows on a Miami beach, faded and bleached by the sun and the salt.