The bald bulb up on our porch ceiling is the worst.

The dark is supposed to be a balm. It’s supposed to sneak in cattily like the fog, lullingly. Instead, a switch flick turns the night garish and inhumane. That high up, the blaze is an assault.

I live in dread of ceiling lights, period. They’re harsh, supercilious. Something glaring down on a person—that’s mean. Lights suspended by their cords are somewhat of an improvement—those low enough. And we can partially dim the one hanging above our table when people are here. The small faces hardly higher than the dinner plates don’t get as bombarded and the rest of us can slightly unclutch our eyelids. We can let down our guard just a bit and lean into the (semi)gloom.

But a feebly lit lamp by the armchair, at one’s elbow—now that’s a comfort. Or a floor lamp behind, where the gleam can’t pierce the periphery of one’s vision. Reading is supposed to be a joy, an indulgence, not a hateful strain. (I’d say if there aren’t lamps in heaven—the good kind—I’m not going, but I probably don’t believe in heaven.)

Hm. The woman, for all she claims, wants things just right?

No. My lampshades are a sight. They’re cracked, or fraying. I’ve maybe ripped out a lining because the fabric was shredding and now you can see the utilitarian metal spines. A good hosing, the bug spots recede, but the look is still shabby. Okay by me.