Waiting

He hears her up there, doing something, getting ready, so he sits by the stove and wants to cry, but he can't cry like that, in front of the stove. Other people are around, in rooms. He looks outside, the power pole he stares at has not moved. It is immovable. He's tired of looking at the power pole. The transformer hangs at the top of the pole at an odd angle, and has a toxic stain running halfway down one side. Wires loop from it, loop here, loop there, some slack, some tight. He looks at each house or building, where the wires go in. He does not want to think about how the wires are attached to the buildings, by grimy small round insulated sprockets. Suddenly she is ready. She looks fresh, and young, and smells faintly of hairspray.