A husband and wife and their friend walk down the dirt road toward the field where the fireflies aren’t as numerous as they had hoped for. There are two beers between the three of them. Earlier, a storm swung around them as if by pardon, its ominous clouds taking the rain elsewhere, and so they were allowed to grill and drink and watch the sun set over a hazy but blue horizon. They had set fire to wet, sparkling wood and when it all turned to coal they trekked up to the dark field where the few fireflies lit up like stars on break.
Now, the friend is woken up by the married couple, not long after they all watched a children’s movie. “You have to see this,” they say to him, motioning toward the constant lightning. It is as if the sky has swallowed all the fireflies that they had expected in the field. Millions of raging fireflies. The friend wonders if it’s a joke; if somehow his married friends have pulled off the greatest prank in history.
Not a second goes by without lightning. Somewhere over the lake, the sky turns to hairline fractures and what can only be wizardry. It seems the storm is back. What they had thought was an exemption turns out to have only been a raincheck, if the expression might be deemed appropriate. Wows fill the narrow cabin. Surrealism is pleasant from afar.
Then the wind picks up. A neighbor’s tree dances for its right to remain standing. The wooden lighthouse which the husband had served as a cover for the firepit now lays toppled in the lawn, its light illuminating blades of grass crashing in on themselves like waves. In varying degrees only they can know, all three of them wonder how bad it will get. There’s no basement and tornado warnings. Their fates are resigned to the cottage’s walls, which flap as if they are not entirely solid.
The lake in the distance is white with waves. They shouldn’t be able to see the lake through so much darkness, but the darkness refuses to stick around. Everything is lit up as if God is trying to show them something. They take videos on their phones, which they know will never tell the story exactly right.
Tired of competing with the show outside, the artificial light of human power goes out. Before they retreat to the safest place they can think of- the windowless bathroom- the wife rushes into the bedroom for wedding rings. Later, the husband will inspect damage done, the clouds above still flashing like strobe lights. The lighthouse’s lamp still works but it’s in half on the lawn. The container where they keep the lawn cushions has flapped open, tossing its lid-securing rock onto the grass. Water leaks through the air conditioner as if seeking shelter from the storm.
It’s over in an hour. Heartbeats calm to their regular three a.m rhythms.
