The Hour The Streetlights Came On Without Warning

She stood at the curb with groceries in her arms when the lights flicked on and knew he would not be late anymore.

The bulbs hummed awake one by one and the street filled with a soft orange that made everything look forgiven. The paper bag sagged and an apple rolled free and stopped against the tire of a parked car. Rebecca Anne Collins bent to pick it up and felt the bruise forming under her thumb. She straightened and listened for the sound she had learned to measure time by. There was none. Rebecca Anne Collins crossed the street slowly and let the bag rest against her hip as if balance were something that could be practiced.

Maple Street ran straight from the school to the river and held its houses close. Screens rattled. Dishes clinked. A radio played somewhere down the block and then stopped. Rebecca climbed the steps to her place and unlocked the door. Inside smelled like detergent and old wood. She set the groceries on the counter and leaned her head back until the ceiling steadied.

They had met at the high school gym during a town fundraiser. Folding chairs. Bad coffee. A raffle no one won. Matthew Joseph Turner had offered to carry a box and given his full name like he was checking in. Rebecca Anne Collins had answered with hers and felt the distance in the carefulness of it. He stayed after to help stack chairs. They talked about nothing that mattered and then about things that did. Over time the names shortened. The street learned when to expect his truck.

Now the counter held two mugs and only one was warm. Rebecca put the groceries away and noticed what was missing. His jacket. His boots. The space by the door felt wider. She sat at the table and pressed the apple against the bruise until it hurt enough to be useful.

At the river the water ran low and fast. Rebecca walked there at dusk and stood where the path dipped. The smell of wet stone rose and fell. She watched the surface take the color of the sky and let it go. Matthew had stood here once and said he needed to try something else. He had said it gently. He had said he would call. She had nodded and watched the current do what it did.

On Main Street the diner lights glowed. Rebecca took a booth by the window and ordered soup she did not finish. Mrs Doyle talked about her nephew. The waitress refilled water without asking. Matthew came in and paused when he saw her. He did not sit. He said hello and asked if she was well. She said yes. The lie rested easily. He said he was leaving in the morning. She said she hoped it went well. They did not touch.

The night cooled. Streetlights clicked on early. Rebecca walked home and counted them. At her door she stopped and listened. The house held. She went inside and turned on the lamp. The room looked smaller with everything accounted for.

Weeks passed. The river dropped. School started. Rebecca learned the sound of evenings alone. Sometimes she heard a truck and felt the old lift and then the letting go. Sometimes she did not feel anything at all.

One evening she found a note in the mailbox. No return address. Matthew Joseph Turner wrote that he had arrived and that the place was louder than he expected. He wrote that he thought of Maple Street when the lights came on. He wrote nothing else. Rebecca folded the paper and set it in the drawer with manuals and string.

At dusk she stood on the curb again with nothing in her hands. The streetlights came on and the hum filled the air. Rebecca Anne Collins breathed and watched the orange settle. She turned toward her door and went inside as the light held steady.