When the Signs Come On

The silence in the lane was wrong. It wasn’t the comfortable, dusty quiet of 2:00 a.m., when the city upstairs had finally stopped vibrating and the only sound was the hum of the transformers. This silence had weight. It sat on Vanessa’s shoulders, heavy and warm, smelling of sandalwood soap and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone from the neon tube cooling on the workbench.

She had just finished the list.

It was a small list, taped to the inside of her pocket, written in her precise, architectural handwriting. *1. Check voltage. 2. Smile at lens. 3. Don’t look at his mouth.*