The lamp by the window
had been dead for a
week. He kept meaning to
replace the bulb, but
the package sat unopened
on the kitchen counter,
next to a stack of
unread mail. Tonight,
the moonlight filtered
through the blinds,
casting striped shadows
across the bare mattress.
He sat on the edge,
holding a book he wasn't
reading. From the
courtyard below, he could
hear the muffled sound of
a couple laughing, a dog
barking, a door slamming
shut. He turned a page,
though he hadn't absorbed
a word.
The radiator clicked on
with a groan, pushing
warm air into the stale
room. He set the book
down, walked to the
kitchen, and picked up
the lightbulb. He held
it for a long moment,
feeling its cold weight
in his palm. Then he
put it back on the
counter and returned to
the mattress, leaving the
lamp unlit.
He didn't want light.
He wanted someone to
notice the dark.
The moon shifted behind a
cloud, and the room went
darker still. He didn't
move.
A dead bulb was easier to explain than a missing voice.