There are lights on each side of our bed, controlled together by a switch on the wall by the door, or individually by pull chains. At night, when we’re in bed, my side stays in the light, so I can read.
I thumb through the pages of classic novels and short stories, dogearring pages and writing notes with a pencil I keep behind my ear. I search for inspiration. I have none during the day, and my own stories never quite get “there.” How can such mundane subjects light up the pages for everyone else?
As I flip the pages, Mary moves closer, like an inchworm wriggling her body next to mine. I can’t tell if she’s pretending to sleep or not, so I roll my eyes and gently elbow her, hoping the slow, nasal snores will stop.
Glass smashes against the sidewalk outside. A couple is stumbling home from the corner bar. “You can’t pee there,” she says, laughing, and their voices trail off as they stagger between the lamplight down the street.
Listen to "Pullchain"
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