You look through the window. It's dark. It's late. Or it's early.
Across the street you see lights, but only two.
They're far. Maybe a quarter-mile. Maybe less.
They light a door.
It will be some time before the sun comes up.
The lights are perfectly level. Well spaced apart. But they're wrong.
They're a pair. But they don't match.
Mesmerizing are their differences. Calling for more than one glance. More than two glances. Now a full stare.
They were the same once. A pair. And a match. But one changed. Or the other changed. Or they both changed in different ways.
One is too warm. Or the other is too cool.
They were the same once. Both lit. And both matched.
But one changed.
Maybe one bulb died.
And maybe time passed, and no one noticed.
And cold from disuse, the bulb was unscrewed.
Replaced with a spare.
A different spare.
So now they don't match.
Through the window. Across the street. Far away. And in the dark. They don't match.
But they're still a pair.
They're still a pair, and they don't stop.
They don't stop. They light the door.