Deciding Whether to Plug In

The breaker blew sometime before dawn—a quiet failure, the house holding its breath. By morning the electrician arrived with a tool belt and calm hands. The breaker, it turned out, hadn’t really blown at all. It came back on the moment he flipped it—the same breaker I had flipped several times before finally calling him. And just like that, as if timing mattered more than effort, the power returned. Maybe nothing was broken. Maybe it just needed the right moment. Or the willingness to try again. Like sparks don’t remember who wakes them.

The vibes were humming. You know the kind—electric, unspoken, that look in the eyes with a little voltage behind it. I gave him eyes back. Circuit closed.

The first time he came, I felt it, then talked myself out of it, told myself maybe I imagined the current. This time, I knew. You don’t mistake electricity once it arcs. You don’t keep flipping the switch without admitting you’re listening for the click.

As he was leaving, I caught him in the reflection of the screen door. Not a glance. A stop. A look. Long enough to matter. I don’t think he knew I could see him seeing me. Or maybe he did. Maybe seeing was enough.

So I shot my shot. Called it what it was. Made the call.
I asked if he was single. He said yes—but that he was "kinda" dating someone. So, single and dating?

Dating—
not a relationship,
just two people
standing near the outlet,
deciding whether
to plug in.

I asked him out on a date. Just like that.
"Would you like to go out on a date?"
A chuckle.
"You wanna go out on a date…with me?"
His voice stuttered, stammered, tripped its own breaker.

"Yes. With you!"

He said he’d think about it, let me know. Fifty-fifty odds—still a live wire. Because sometimes power doesn’t rush anywhere. Sometimes it lingers in the space between switches, in the quiet after the lights come on, where no one is sure who’s holding the charge—or if it needs to be used at all.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Harrison Broadbent on Unsplash

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