Pickles & Dimes

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. I catch it out of the corner of my eye: my work lamp softly flickering. The noise sounds like the world’s tiniest mosquito zapper. I stare at it while it responds with silence. I return to my work and a few minutes later, quietly: Bzzt. I sigh, remove my headphones and turn off the lamp. Unscrew the lampshade. Realize the lampshade has two screws and the lamp has two light bulbs. Unscrew the second lampshade screw. Realize the lampshade cannot be completely removed because there are clamps. Curse Ikea and their foreign lamp parts named entirely with umlauts. Wedge my arm up to the first bulb. Tap gingerly and then tighten it. Repeat with the second bulb. Replace both screws. Am almost sweating – ridiculous. Turn on the lamp. Light – and silence. Well, that’s that, then.

Later. Bzzt. Bzzt. What? Now it’s the other lamp (there are three). It is a mockery sung in the round. I turn it off, let the bulb cool and tighten it. It is hot enough that I have to pull my sweater sleeve over my hand. Turn it back on. Stare pointedly at it. Go ahead. Nothing, then a few seconds later, a tentative Bzzt. Stronger now, braver, confident. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Relentless, triumphant. The other lamp joins in, a buzzing duet of flickering light.

The flickering bothers me. Reminds me of something. Of what? Flickers of light, of hope, of recognition, of unease? Harbingers, maybe. Like the moment in a horror film before something evil or violent occurs. I shut off the lights and leave my desk. When I come back I feel stupid. It’s just lights, dummy. Turned back on, they are cheery, warding off the winter darkness with a warm, golden glow.

At home, I am ripping out my knitting while Jason sits across the room in the recliner, reading. Bzzt. Bzzt. I glance up with a start. The table lamp next to me. Bzzt. Flickering. Jason doesn’t notice, though the buzzing is loud and the flickering obvious. It’s a coincidence. I go back to cursing my inability to count stitches, for god’s sake, how hard is it to count to five? A few more times, Bzzt, like a warning.

That night, downstairs watching TV. Shorty stands suddenly and growls, his fur raised in a mohawkish ridge along his back. Barking and growling, louder and louder. I follow his gaze to our small downstairs window. A giant black cat sits outside, watching, the reflection of light turning his eyes a glowing green. The barking intensifies until the cat finally walks away, unhurried. Not small, orange or cute, but black. Large and malevolent. Shorty can’t calm down. He curls into my lap, emitting random barks every few minutes as a precaution. I stare at the window, trying to remove the feeling of being watched.

The TV screen in the background flickers softly.