Let There Be Night

Way back in the 60s when I was establishing myself as the Family Whistle Blower in my hyper-sexual clan, I developed a sense that secret demons tend to shrivel in the sunlight. The best way to disarm a "demon" is head on at High Noon.
I continue obsessing like a mad female dog over security lights. I crave the stars like a starving child. I have nary a name for a single constellation but my heart cries for the tight knit of starlit majesty carrying me off to sleep.
My husband is the astronomy talent of the family. His gift for names and dates allows him to know when and where to be for the hot celestial events. 'Twas a time when his far-sighted eyes and my near-sighted ones could make magical use of a blanket of stars.
Here in the 21st century even "third world" countries have replaced their stars with security lights. Especially? They typically cannot afford the latest lighting technology.
The magic of those starlit nights has festered into a canker sore between my husband and I. When I set to obsessing, I can saddle up a dead horse and get another 100,000 miles out of it's rotting, stinking carcass. I can't help it any more than I can help breathing. Light triggers have figured in to every breakdown I have had in our 32 years together. He still dreams of his telescope to while away his retirement years and can see the dream shriveling in the electric glow, but talking about it risks triggering me.
Meet the demon at High Noon.
I am still looking to fill that Community Service slot on my agenda.