the smoke alarm

chirp.

My smoke alarm is broken. Or it needs a new battery. Or something.

chirp.

I don't really know, and I don't really care. What I do know is that I can't reach it. I'm tall, so that misfortune usually doesn't happen to me. I can usually reach things.

chirp.

In fact, with the help of a chair, I can reach every tall thing in my apartment. Every tall thing except the smoke alarm. Every silent tall thing, that is.

chirp.

Don't think I haven't tried. I have dragged every chair we own into the hallway. Even the ones with wheels, which I have attempted to still with boxes.

chirp.

I have tried stacking our Ikea stepstool on top of a chair. I couldn't get it to stay up there for more then ten seconds, let alone with me on top of it.

chirp.

I even considered putting on four inch heels and getting on top of a chair. Then thought better of that.

chirp.

I then called my landlord. He is at work today, his wife told me, but he will be sure to come and fix it tomorrow.

chirp.

In the interim, I am stuck with the chirp.

Home. Alone. On a day that was intended for serious writing.

And every five seconds:

chirp.

A matter of fact, glaring chirp.

Fuck you, smoke alarm, I think.

I stuff ear plugs in my ears and keep working.

chirp.