Every now and then, if you’re lucky, you meet people who are electric. They fill your life with staccato bursts of color and utter brilliance. Their presence is like that of the moon’s: bright and blazing and always felt, even if it isn’t time for the moon to be awake. They’re like the neon in a luminescent hotel sign; always buzzing. Always phosphorescent. There’s simply something unspeakable about them. You couldn’t quite put words to it, even if you tried. How would you explain electricity to someone who had lived in constant darkness? But like electricity, the person is often unreliable. They exist in tragically illuminated dewdrops. Sometimes, trees fall on the electrical lines or heavy ice storms cause them to break. Then the current can’t get through, even though it’s still flowing. But we rely on that person to light up our lives. So we keep paying the electric bill. Because after somebody so electrifying comes into your life, how do you return to your newly lit up world without their constant current? You don’t forget the feeling of fireworks in your veins. You don’t forget the feeling of electric current in your bloodstream. We crave their unintentional intensity. But here’s the thing about electricity: If you make it the rawest force in your little world, you ultimately end up electrocuted.