a moment in the day: dark

It's late, and the dark of the tiny house where I'm having my writing retreat is broken by the glows of tea candles placed in the centers of plates, and one Coleman lantern sitting on the kitchen counter.

The power's been off since sevenish all over the neighborhood because of one big whoop-up of a storm that happened to hit just as Stephen was arriving to take me out on a date night for dinner. Now, after salade and champignons and wine and crème brûlée and pot au chocolat, after the promise from PGE that the power will be back on by 9:30, by 11:15, by 3:00, and with Stephen heading home to Nicholas, I lie back on the little padded bench where I've been doing my work. Not sure what to do now. I'm a little too awake to go to sleep.

I quick get up and blow out the tea candles, leaving the lantern on to light the room. Back at the little bench, I lie back and open the book I took from the tiny house's library. The Mercy of the Tide by Keith Rosson.

What if they don't get the power back on? What if lightning hit something important and they can't get it up and running again and I have to leave my lovely retreat early, I mean, I didn't even get to make my pizza.

I get back to reading. His language is dense and rich. It's interesting to read someone else's book when you've been immersed in your own language for a long, concentrated time. I read aloud:

"But for now it was winter and the beach was mostly empty. The dogs, like the tourists, were mostly gone, though unlike the tourists, they still made the occasional appearance on the off-season, these half-starved revenants seen trotting down along the surf at night or in the mist of a brushed-steel dawn, snouts pressed to the ground in search of some elusive scent, the ghost of old gustatory riches."

As I read aloud in the lanternlit shadows, where I've been poring and poring over my own writing, my brain thinks, but could I ever write something as real and beautiful as that?

"Toad stood nearby absently drawing gigantic penises—"

And, yes, that's when the power comes on.

I see it in the snap of a red light under the desk where the wifi lives. I don't want to believe it without proof. Maybe that thing runs on battery or something and I just didn't notice it until now. So I put down the book, step forward into the tiny bathroom—the first thing I think to do—and press a button. Whoosh! The electric toilet is working! Huzzah, we're back in business.