The storm would not abate that night, the lightning blinded me. He said I arched off the bed a foot or more, screaming, he said he thought I was struck and I was, and when the dream sheets of white light kept repeating, I’d wake up trembling and roll toward him. One night, after yet another bolt, I reached for the bedside lamp and the bulb lit and frizzled at my touch. What did it mean? He called me “witch” and I married him, then lived for a decade in the lesser light of our fusion. Only it wasn’t that, just need and lust scrawled tight. But I was talking of light, how it blinded and illuminated, I was talking of visitation and power, not the unbending lure of his eyes.