An essay from Smells Like Monday by Chad Schomber
There’s a moment, maybe a second, when you open the fridge and nothing happens. Just the hum. Cold breath on your shins. The door creaks open, you lean in, and it’s dark. Then—click—light.
Most folks don’t notice. They're too busy reaching for the milk or checking if the leftovers still resemble food. But if you’re paying attention, if you’re the type who lets silence stretch a little too long, you’ll feel it. That pause. The second before the light gives in.
And in that second, you realize something odd. You’re not in charge. Not really.
You think you are, because you paid for the thing. Because you can unplug it, move it, curse at it when the ice cream turns to soup. But the fridge doesn’t care. It’s not loyal. It hums and chills and waits, and sometimes, just to remind you who’s who, it hesitates.
The light is the signal. A tiny rebellion.
It’s not broken. Don’t go thinking that. Broken is loud. Sparks, smoke, that burnt smell of melting insulation. Broken is a cry for help. This is quieter. This is the sort of thing that could be explained away by a manufacturer with three words: “Energy-saving feature.” Sure.
Or maybe it’s timing. Wiring. A slow switch. Something in the mechanism that needs just one extra beat to decide if this moment is worthy of illumination.
But I’ve started to think it’s more deliberate. Like the fridge is weighing you. Watching.
Who are you, really, in that second of dark? What are you doing here? Do you need food, or just comfort? Do you even remember what you came for?
It’s 2:13 a.m. You’re in your underwear. One sock. There’s a fork in your hand and you don’t know why. The light delays. You wait. Something about it feels holy.
Then it clicks on, and the spell breaks. Just shelves. Bottles sweating. That jar of pickles you keep for guests who never come. The half-eaten cheesecake you forgot to feel guilty about.
And you, standing there like a raccoon with a mortgage, blinking at the light.
We like to believe that machines are extensions of us. Tools. Predictable. But some machines aren’t loud or dramatic. Some don’t need to crash to get your attention. Some just wait. And make you blink first.
I had a friend once who said his fridge light didn’t do that. Said it came on instantly, every time. He was proud of it, like it proved something about him. That his life was in order. His socks matched. His ice cubes were square.
I visited once. Opened his fridge. Light came on instantly. No drama. No hesitation. Cold and bright like a dentist’s smile. I nodded, shut the door, and left feeling like I’d missed something.
Maybe that’s what control looks like. Or maybe that’s what it pretends to look like.
See, I don’t trust anything that doesn’t flinch a little before turning on. Doesn’t matter if it’s a light, a person, or a plan. That pause—that moment of doubt—is honest. It’s the mechanical version of “Are you sure?” And I respect that.
So when my fridge takes that extra second, I let it. I stand there in the cold and I wait. I don’t rush it. I don’t tap the bulb or slam the door.
Because in that second, I’m reminded of something true and stupid and important:
Sometimes the world doesn’t respond just because you demand it.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, it answers.
Click.