The Night of the Blackout

It was a Thursday in July, and the whole city was very hot. At eight in the evening, the lights went out in every apartment of the Aurora building at the same time.

No fans, no television, no internet. One by one, the residents opened their windows and then their doors, looking for some fresh air and some news.

In the stairwell, people who had lived side by side for years introduced themselves for the first time. “I'm Carla, from the fifth floor.” “Oh, so you're the one who plays the piano!”

Mr. Otto from the second floor brought candles. A family from the fourth floor brought a big bottle of lemonade. Someone found an old battery radio and put it on the steps.

The radio said that a storm had damaged the power lines and that the electricity would come back only after midnight. Nobody complained. Somebody suggested a picnic in the courtyard.

In the courtyard, under the stars, each family shared what they had in the fridge before it got warm: cheese, fruit, cold chicken, a chocolate cake. It was a strange dinner, and a delicious one.

Carla brought down her guitar, because she needed light to read the music for the piano. The children danced, Mr. Otto told stories about the building in the sixties, and nobody looked at a phone.

At half past twelve, the lights came back all at once. Everyone cheered, but nobody went upstairs right away. They stayed a little longer, talking softly in the warm night.

Since that night, there has been a picnic in the courtyard of the Aurora building on the first Thursday of every month. The lights stay on, but the phones stay in people's pockets.