When the porch light stopped working, they should have gone back inside. Instead they remained still, just as they were a moment before: Separate, but close; the lips of their drink glasses nearly kissing in their hands.
They waited, as though expecting the light to come back at any second. They waited, letting the long sigh of the laugh they’d just shared fall gracefully into each other’s skin. They waited, senses tuning in to the dark and open air. They waited, and listened.
To the cacophony of insects unseen and so close by. To ice melting, shifting and clinking against chilled glass. To the particular way someone breathes while they’re smiling. To some animal, padding along the moonlit grass and leaves.
Soon enough they could see that they were moonlit as well. And they saw each other, again.