When the power went out toward the end of our Independence Day dinner, one guest asked, “What’s in the freezer?” Everyone else—guests and my fellow writers—drew their chairs closer around the candlelit tables and poured out a little more wine. Without power, time becomes liquid. From the back terrace, a handful of lightning bugs dotted the backyard, and we waved sparklers in response.
Later, five of us gathered in the darkness of the third floor to share stories. When the power came back, time regained its sharp corners. We drifted apart and returned to our work, the room filled with light.