treatswords

“Did you dim the lights?”

“No, I’ve been sitting right here, where you left me.”

He says, pointing to his stacked feet lying on the olive ottoman.

“I mean, someone dimmed the lights in here. When I left, I could read every word on the page of my book. Now look, I can’t see a thing!”

I say, pointing to the words now shadowed by the newly dimmed room.

“No one dimmed the lights. If it wasn’t me, who was it, a ghost?”

I shake my head.

“You’re sure it wasn’t you?”

He sighs, a longer sigh than needed.

“Are we really doing this again? It wasn’t me.”

I stare at my feet, the familiar curve of my middle toe, a sight I often wander to when his eyes are on me.

“You really are crazy, you know that?”

I brush my skirt and scoop my book up, heading to the stairs.

His fat finger slipping to the dimmer.

Watching the living room light and my own flicker off.