Burned Out

by A. S. Andrews

One:

It takes two people with four degrees and three children between them two full weeks to change a light bulb. One of them is blonde, but that has nothing to do with it. One of them is an attorney, but that has nothing to do with it either.

Two:

The light bulb burns out. No one changes it for two weeks. It’s the only light bulb in the only bathroom in the house. The family is home the first week, and also the second. They don’t take vacations anymore. The ladder and the spare bulb are in the garage, easily reachable by both adults. The socket is a little touchy, but nothing they can’t handle.

Three:

The bulb is out. It’s dark in the bathroom, so the whole family bathes in the morning, and sometimes they’re late. If someone has to pee at night, they turn on the hall light and leave the door open.

For the first few days, the two adults continue to mention to each other that someone should change the bulb, but no one does. The children complain but know better than to ask too many questions.

After the first week, the oldest daughter forgets to close the bathroom door at school, and pretty soon all her friends want underwear with hearts on it too.

Even in the morning, the light in the bathroom is dim. There’s one small window, up high next to the shower, mostly blocked by shampoo bottles no one bothers to move.

After a week and a half, the darkness begins to seem normal. Then someone slips while shaving, leaving not a nick but a gash. It takes one trip to the emergency room, five stitches, and four hours to close the wound.

At last the bulb is changed. Now the bathroom feels too bright. The mold in the grout has grown thick and dark. There’s pee on the toilet seat, shoe prints on the linoleum, and toothpaste in the sink. There’s still blood on the counter, the medicine cabinet, and the light switch.

Arguments follow. It’s suggested that the two adults find two separate bathrooms in two separate houses. The youngest daughter wets her bed.

The oldest daughter finally cleans the bathroom, because she has to use it too. She decides hearts are overrated. Now she wants skulls and stitches, as does her little brother. She talks about it while she cleans, wondering aloud if it wasn’t better in the dark.

Four:

The light in the bathroom burns out. It’s a magnificent event, a brilliant strobe of light, followed by an explosive pop, and then silence, darkness, stillness, while the socket waits to see what will happen next.