She'd wanted to get home and was terribly scared but another part of her took over and told her to face up to whatever this was. She pulled the car to an empty street end by the lake, got out and waited. The lights had gone and so had all the kids who watch the sunset, smoke cigarettes and drink their parents' beer. Her fear had left her, she said, leaving a kind of peace so she went down to the shoreline and took off her shoes. As she slowly walked in the hard sand at the water's edge, past dark houses so expensive that you can't even afford one if you live here, the lights came back.
Some people see saucers and some little gray men with big black eyes.
It was, she said, just lights. They came closer and closer, reflecting in the calm water and filling her with wonder until they finally went away and left her feeling somehow emptied. She took to driving late, inventing new organizations to join and forgetting about cleaning or laundry for days at a time. I hadn't noticed, I said. She finally left me just before Thanksgiving and no one else's turkey will ever be as moist, no mashed potatos ever so light, no pumpkin pie ever good enough.