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Remember lying awake that first night. Listening to
the neighbors stump upstairs and learning the clatter
of the pipes in the walls. The lights from the parking
lot next door keeping us awake. Piercing, was the word
you used to describe the beam from the lamp hovering,
like a flying saucer over our car and those of our new
neighbors. The street lamps are light sensitive, I
told you. They illuminate automatically when the sun
goes down and are extinguished in the morning when
they sense the sunlight. You climbed out of bed to
retrieve the flashlight your father donated to our
first apartment. We lay on our stomachs, our drowsy
chins resting on the windowsill, shining the
flashlight beam at the hood of the street lamp, trying
to trick it; trying to make it believe that morning
was approaching.
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