I was surprised to find that you were afraid of the dark.  You of all people should have nothing to fear in it.  But then again, I too was once aware of the eyes and teeth and hulking spines that could press into shadows.  I have heard their slitherings, I have heard the gnashings of their teeth.  I grew out of these things, and there was a day where I realized that they did not belong with me, like that day I found that I could touch my toes to the ground as I dangled from monkey bars.

You never did.

Every night at eight, when the sun was beginning to slide off the expanse of the sky, you would turn on that one lightbulb, sitting like a final tooth in its socket on your desk.  It was harsh and painful to the skin of my eyes.  You would keep boxes of fresh bulbs under the sink.

One day, in your absence, I took the silken scarf from my head and laid it over the bulb.  When you flicked the switch on, you realized what I had done and shuddered from the ends of your toenails to the tips of your hair.  You tossed it out the window and asked what I was doing.  I didn’t reply.

The next day, I brought a small bottle of inky black paint.  While your back was turned, I dabbed the smallest of dots onto the edge of the lightbulb.  You didn’t notice, even when you flicked it on.  When you were changing into your bedclothes later, I made another fearless mark on the thin glass.

I came back the following day and made another three dots; one while you served the spaghetti, one while you used the toilet, and one while you paused to look up at the darkening sky.  If you had noticed then, you didn’t want to talk of it.  Nothing was discussed.

A week went by, and I was sure you had seen.  The bottom third was blackened off completely.  But you said nothing to me.  It was never mentioned.  I went my quiet way, licking off light one taste at a time.

I made it halfway up the bulb in black before it burned out.  The new one was clean and clear and made my heart sink.  But the next day I came, it was colored halfway, a twin to its deceased predecessor.  You saw me glance at it, and we said nothing.  I continued painting during those stolen moments in your absence, and you continued allowing me.  It was unspoken, fragile.  Tangible.

Days ticked by like river streams of ants.  I found my hands making bold splashes of black on some nights, retreating to epileptic flecks on others.  It was a blackness that ate with deliberation and frenzy, some nights slashing against the light, other nights putting it out of its misery with all the compassion of some brave, nameless nurse.  Sometimes, sick things have lived to die.

One night, I came and realized that there was one last clear spot, suspended on the side of the bulb against the surrounding darkness.  We ate dinner with a silent detachment in near darkness, like those candlelit dinners you hear about in movies.  The green bean on you fork was shaking, but only slightly.

I pulled the paint bottle and brush out of my pocket and set them on the table.  We watched each other for a while.  I told you that I loved you, and you told me I was bright against so many encroaching shadows.  You asked me for the brush.

We held hands, and you filled in the last spot of light.

The darkness was acceptable and warm.