Lightbulb Man

My husband is hoarding the lightbulbs. Not just any lightbulbs—our lightbulbs. The good ones. The ones that made the whole house glow like noon on a spring day.

He’d spent weeks replacing the old greenish incandescents, muttering about how they were terrible for your eyes, how they made the place feel like a tomb. Now, he’s packing them up. Carefully. Tenderly. Each one swaddled in paper towels like they’re fragile treasures, like they mean more to him than the rest.

“They’re going to Montana with me,” he said like that explained anything.

He put the incandescents back, of course. He’s not cruel enough to leave me in the dark. Just cruel enough to leave me in that light—the sickly green haze that turns white walls into something lunar, sterile, and strange. It’s the kind of light that makes you see things out of the corner of your eye–things not there or shouldn’t be.

While he packs, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The shadows cast are unfamiliar, sharp-edged, moving when nothing in the room should be. I want to tell him to stop, put things back, to stay. But I know he won’t.

He’s not just taking the lightbulbs; he’s taking the home. All left for me is this house, the strange green glow, and the cratered shadows above.

The walls close tighter every night, the light bulbs humming softly in their sockets, laughing at me.