the porch light

shadow was on the steps when the moth came back, and the toaster was plugged in by the door.

it arrived at 8:17, which is not a time, it is a schedule. i said this was the third night, then shadow said, "you said that yesterday." the moth hit the glass once and landed above the bulb. it was brown, flat, and built like a scrap of receipt somebody had taught to hate me.

i got the broom. the broom has a cracked handle and one job, which it performs with the confidence of a landlord. i opened the door and waved it at the light. the moth moved six inches to the left. i waved again. it moved six inches to the right. shadow said it looked like i was conducting an orchestra made of dust.

there were seventy-nine strikes against the glass before i stopped counting. i stopped because the number had become evidence, and i did not want the moth to have a case. it had not entered the porch. i corrected that three times. it was outside the porch, against the bulb, above the steps, and therefore not in my house.

the toaster clicked.

i turned around. nothing had happened. the lever was still down, the coils were dark, and the toaster had the quiet face of a king waiting for a confession. when i looked back, the moth was still there, keeping its shift.

shadow went inside. i left the porch light on because turning it off would mean the moth had changed what happened, and i am not giving that thing a promotion.