Tell-Fail Battery
Pleased to have enjoyed an evening replete with intellectual and physical rigor in equal parts, I turn on the heater, cozy up in flannel pajamas, and snuggle up under the sheets with a delirious smile spreading across my lips. I recount specific events of the day and the few days before it, the thoughts shifting and melding into lower and lower levels of coherence.
I am almost asleep when a brief, mechanical shriek interrupts my reverie. Ah, the godforsaken smoke detector. It had sounded earlier in the day, too, and somehow stopped arbitrarily. It just had to make its come-back at this moment, didn’t it?
I turn around and lie on my stomach. I press one ear into the pillow, and attempt stuffing the other ear with my blanket. No use. The chirping is salient, as disconcerting as a pale, blue vulture eye.
I finally click on my lamp and rub my eyes, squinting as they adjust to the light. I get out of bed and swing my desk chair a few feet over. I step on the chair and flip open the smoke detector, facing the failing battery head-on. I ruthlessly snatch it out.
If I am going to get burned, let me do so in oblivion. I would rather not be cautioned too late and in vain, and I would certainly rather not be kept awake with the shrill reminder of my chamber’s diminishing prowess in smoke detection.
