They installed a new streetlight across the street where Sheri and I live. Another orange sodium light that confuses the termites that swarm just beneath it. One more stain the color of crime. Bright as fog when the sun's getting ready to show.

It's supposed to make us feel safer, so that we can see more of what's going on below, down there on the street. While crime doesn't really happen on our block, it lurks, an unspoken fear from too much silence or not enough noise.

I think there are other things we'd rather have, though the choice is not ours. Our highest rank is to be the unwilling spectators of some sad street drama. A man holding his hand over a woman's sobs as they exit a door beneath us, out to the night.

Sheri looks out at the new light from the window that sits open faced though sealed shut between our front doors. "I wish they hadn't done that," she says, tracing her finger on the pane. "The moon won't shine into my window anymore."

I know what she means.

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