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Under the Streetlamp
Asha wanted the bulbs bright before her mother arrived. The stall was a table at the end of a row, with oranges in crates and a string of small lights clipped to the frame. Those lights were her pride. In the daytime they did nothing. At dusk they made the fruit look warm, and her mother was coming from work to see the stall on its first evening.
She plugged the string into the socket on the post. The bulbs woke, one after another, a thin warm line. Asha stepped back. The table looked ready. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked down the street. Her mother was not there yet.
Then the light went out. All of it, at once. The socket was dead. Asha pressed the switch, then pressed it again. She checked the plug.