The noise we stop hearing until we don't

It's been running all week

because it's hot,

and the noise is

just noise,

just the sound of air

moving in circles,

just the thing

you don't hear

until you hear it.

Last night I heard it—

a wobble,

a rattle,

something

not quite right

in the rhythm,

something

that keeps the blades

from spinning

perfectly,

keeps the rotation

from being

what it should be.

Now I can't unhear it.

The fan was here

when I moved in.

I've lived under it

for three years,

sleeping under it,

waking under it,

the shadow

moving across the wall

in predictable circles,

and I never once

looked at it,

never once

thought about

what was above my head,

what was keeping

the air

moving.

But tonight

the wobble

is louder,

or I'm quieter,

or my attention

has finally landed

on the small imperfection

that was always there,

waiting

for me

to notice.

I lie in bed

and count the rotations.

One. Two. Three.

Wobble.

Four. Five. Six.

Wobble.

It's like a heartbeat

with an arrhythmia,

like something

trying to work right

but can't quite manage it,

and I'm the only one

who knows.

I could get up.

Could call the super.

Could fix it.

Instead I lie here

listening

to what I didn't hear

before,

understanding finally

that once you notice

something broken,

you can't

go back

to sleep.