whitelights

He stood before the shelf, surveying the strings of lights. He needed new ones. She had always insisted on white. No colors, only white. There was something perfect about white. Or so she’d said. Once he’d suggested colors and she’d said, “Like your parents’ tree?” and he’d acquiesced, because of how she said it – accusingly, mostly, but intimidating, too. She was gone, now. After all that time and all those white lights, she was gone. She hadn’t been perfect, after all. He grabbed a box of lights from the shelf, a box with reds and blues and greens and yellows and no whites. He felt so good about his choice he took two. A clerk asked if he needed help. He thought about saying, “Not anymore,” but knew that wouldn’t be true. Instead, he said, “I’m alright, thanks.” That wasn’t completely true, either, but it was closer. He paid cash for the lights. She would’ve used a credit card. She always used a credit card. He didn’t have one, anymore. Or the fan noise, at night. Now, he slept in the stillness.