Every Thursday at noon, Mrs. Hilda Stripe hosts a seminar for the younger lamps. Sylva always arrives first, notebook already open. Nurharchi sits at the back with his cone tilted suspiciously forward. Darla only comes when it’s raining, and even then she brings snacks.
This week’s topic is The Architecture of Teacups.
“Observe,” Hilda announces, tapping her base on the desk. “The saucer is not merely support. It is theatre!”
She adjusts her pleated shade dramatically. The younger ones scribble. Nurharchi does not.
Later, when class is dismissed, she stays behind to tidy the light in the room – nudging beams into balance, dusting out the awkward shadows. “Nothing ruins a sentence like uneven ambience,” she mutters.
It’s true. Even the floorboards pause to agree.