On and Off, On and Off

I like to watch the lights go on and off from my back fire escape in my new apartment. The sky is pink-black, and it's so quiet that I can actually hear insects. It's so quiet that I can hear a single passing car, a girl in flip-flops, a hushed conversation on the corner. I like to think about what is going on behind those windows, where the lights are turned on, and then where they are turned off. My neighbors are getting home from work, dropping their keys on the table, starting dinner. They're saying hello to one another, or they are silently dealing with lonesomeness. They're going into their bathrooms and brushing their teeth, they're reading their children a story, they're having sex. I like to think that they all are the same as me; maybe they liked Inception too, maybe they read David Sedaris. They have slowly made their way through their day, and they are slowly making their way out of it, turning their lights on and off as they please, making rooms brighter and then making them darker. I turn around and walk back inside, turn off the living room light, go into the bathroom, turn on the bathroom light, brush my teeth, turn off the light, go into my bedroom, turn on the light and then turn it off.