Don't Reach for the Light

A man does all he can to get the attention of a woman

Don’t reach for the light

It’s the darkest night since records began and an illuminated box hangs fifteen feet up in the evening’s misty gloom, its radiance divided into four, split by peeling white pine. Inside this box, a television paints the ceiling the hues of the ocean, and then of the forest, and then of fire. A faint  drone of sirens, and violence, and smashed glass, and birdsong, and violins, and laughter, bleeds out of the room. Sat on the edge of a bed is you.

I have a letter for you and with your window ajar, I fold it into a crude paper aeroplane and arrow it towards the small opening. It glides for a moment before the wind catches it, flipping it sideways as it flutters and veers off course, disappearing into the night. The black box, it seems, will never be discovered. Another letter, another plane. And another, and another. I fashion paper spitfires, paper B-52s, paper 747s, until I find myself buried waist-deep in a makeshift boneyard of crumpled aircraft. You’re still sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the hair from the bristles of your brush. The television emits a brief flash of yellows and golds that expose the contours of your face.

I yearn to call out to you. I want to scream out but my tongue lays dormant on the floor of my mouth. I attempt to cross the garden toward the house, but my legs are drunk and dizzy. I fumble for my phone, hoping to text you, but the battery dies right there in my palm - too many YouTube videos this morning.

As the film reaches its end, your room is shrouded in darkness. Reflections of the cast and crew scroll up your body, across your face, and dissolve onto the back wall. You reach forward and turn off the television. But darling, please - don’t reach for the light. 

And yet, you do, your hand reaching towards the switch, and just as your fingers are inches from the switch, you hesitate as something outside snatches your attention. You squint into the abyss and I find myself squinting back. 

And then - impossibly - a broad smile blooms across your face that thrills me. You spring from the bed and push the window wide. your face illuminated by the misty half-moon. Your crimson lips part, ready to speak, your breath moistening in the crisp air, and you say to me:

Is that you, Kev?

Who’s Kev?