Oblivio: Stories and such by Michael Barrish

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Path | Nov 09 2002

Exhausted, I finally turn off the computer. I get up from my desk, take off my robe, and hang it on its hook. While doing this I notice that the water container is still sitting where I left it on the kitchen counter, unfilled. I move the container to the sink, prop the top open against the faucet, and turn on the cold water. While the water runs, I turn off the light over the stove without realizing that this is the only light on in the apartment. Sudden darkness. What to do?

I should say how tired I am. I’m so tired I can’t figure out what you do when you mistakenly turn off the only light on in your apartment.

So what I do is, I stand there and try to figure it out.

Do I turn it back on? Is it worth the energy it takes to turn it back on when I’m only going to turn it off it again as soon as I put the filled container in the refrigerator?

As I ponder this, the water spills over the side of the container. Hearing it spill, I turn off the faucet and put the container away. Then I walk to my desk and take my phone from the desk and move it to the floor next to my bed. Each of these things is more difficult than you would think, partly because of my exhaustion and partly because the lights are out.

*

The reason I move the phone is because I’m imagining that M might call in the morning before I get out of bed.

A short time before, M had sent me an email containing an image of a block of color. This was her proposed color for us to dream in this night. Each night one of us a picks a color to dream in. Such is the stage we’re in now: we’re trying to dream in the same color.

As I move the phone, I remember the color, a misty gray-blue.