Fig, Frost, and Faulty Wiring

“In this house, the power coming back on is less about electricity and more about timing.”

The loaf was dense and fragrant, its crust still slightly crisp from when Valerie had run it under the grill. The fig was rich and sticky, the sweetness mellowed by toasted walnut—earthy, warm, the kind of flavour that slowed you down whether you meant to linger or not.

Jane and I sat opposite each other at the dining table, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. Each of us had a chipped plate—different patterns, neither matching the other—and a steaming mug of herbal tea, coaxed from the old stovetop kettle after some convincing clatter. It had taken a while to bring the flame up under the ancient gas burner, but the heat that followed felt earned.

She’d kept her jacket on, hands wrapped around the mug like she was charging herself from the inside out. Understandable. With the heating out and the back door still bleeding draughts from its less-than-perfect seal, the house had settled back into its natural winter state: one degree warmer than outside, and only by effort.

Fern lay beneath Jane’s chair like a guardian resigned to domestic absurdity. Her long limbs were tucked neatly beneath her, chin pressed between her paws, eyes half-lidded in a look of infinite canine patience. Every so often she sighed, deep and deliberate, the way someone might when forced to endure a very dull theatre production for the sake of company. Her tail gave the occasional twitch, not from alertness—just commentary.

Conversation drifted between us like the steam curling from our cups—unforced, gentle, a kind of shared reprieve. We talked about nothing that mattered and everything that grounded us.

A local councillor who’d apparently developed a sudden affection for novelty bow ties, parading them with increasing flamboyance at community events. A neighbour’s rooster who’d reportedly taken to chasing tradesmen up and down the driveway—“psychologically motivated,” Jane suggested, deadpan, “possibly a labour dispute.” I didn’t argue.

She leaned back slightly, one shoulder nudging the edge of the window frame, and told me, with perfect composure, how Fern had stolen a sandwich clean out of Valerie’s handbag during a phone call with the tax office. No noise. No warning. One moment the sandwich was there, the next it was a ghost—and Fern had returned to her spot by the heater with all the serenity of a nun in prayer.

The way Jane told it, flat-voiced and unhurried, made it funnier. I caught myself smiling before I meant to.

Then—click.

The lights came back.

The overhead pendant above the table flickered once, casting a brief stutter of shadow across the tablecloth, then steadied into a warm, amber glow. The fridge exhaled behind me with a mechanical sigh, a low hum sliding into place like a song it had almost forgotten. Somewhere in the depths of the house, the old gas heater kicked in with a drawn-out breath, rattling slightly as it shook off hours of cold silence.

Outside, the security light flared to life with theatrical timing, flooding the backyard in sudden brightness. Long shadows stretched across the grass, caught awkwardly between garden beds and compost bins, and for a moment the shed looked like a stage set under harsh floodlights. Chris's shadow moved somewhere behind it, distorted and oversized—King of the Frostbitten Drainage Works.

Jane looked up from her now-empty plate and gave a low, amused snort. “Well,” she said, rising and brushing the crumbs from her jeans, “looks like the genius lives.”

I smiled over the rim of my mug, feeling the heat of the tea warm the bridge of my nose. “About bloody time.”

She leaned down and gave Fern a gentle pat between the ears. “Come on, escort. You’ve done your duty.”

Fern rose with the reluctant groan of someone who’d found her evening rhythm only to have it interrupted. She stretched with dramatic intent, front legs long and slow, back curved, then trotted dutifully after Jane, nails ticking softly on the boards.

Jane paused at the door, tugging her jacket tighter. “Thanks for the dinner. Even if it came with a side of thriller tension.”

“Safe drive,” I said, following her out to the porch, the cold already finding my collar again.

She gave me a look, dry and fond. “Try not to let Chris electrocute himself.”

“No promises.”

We shared a quick hug—brisk, bracing. The kind that said more than it looked like. Then she and Fern crossed the gravel, their footsteps crunching over the frosted stones. The mist had returned, soft around the trees, swallowing sound in that peculiar way it did out here—like it was protecting the quiet rather than disturbing it.

Jane’s car started with a familiar rumble, the headlights cutting two clean paths through the dark. Her tail lights glowed red as she eased out onto the drive, then vanished around the bend, swallowed by eucalypts and shadow.

Inside, the house was slowly warming. The lights revealed familiar clutter—the basket of unsorted mail, a pile of clean washing half-folded, the old candlestick still glowing faintly from earlier. The scent of walnut and fig lingered with the ghosts of laughter and cold tea. Lived-in. Frayed at the edges, but ours.

Somewhere behind the shed, Chris was almost certainly still muttering to himself, convinced the world owed him a standing ovation for averting subterranean catastrophe.

I shook my head and shut the door.