Cable

The cable repairman arrives at 3 PM, exactly when David would normally be at work. Sarah watches through the window as the van pulls up, checking her reflection in the glass. Her hair, once chestnut and abundant, now looks thin against her pale forehead. Stress, everyone tells her. Just stress.

The repairman is young, maybe twenty-five, with efficient movements and a clipboard that he actually uses. "Cable's been intermittent," he says, not looking up from the junction box behind the television. "Loose connection probably. These old buildings, the wiring gets erratic."

"Erratic," Sarah repeats. "That's one word for it."

She should be at work too, but she called in sick. Sick with what, she can't articulate. The orange peels on the kitchen counter might be a clue — David hates citrus, always has. Yet there they were this morning, fresh and bright against the gray granite, alongside a coffee cup she didn't recognize. Small betrayals accumulate like dust.

"You're all set," the repairman says, testing the connection. The television flickers to life, some daytime talk show exploding with artificial enthusiasm. "Sometimes it's just a loose wire. Sometimes you need to replace the whole system."

Sarah runs her hand through her hair again. There's more gray than she remembered. "How do you know when it's worth saving?"

He looks at her really for the first time, something like understanding in his eyes. "Lady, I just fix cables. But if it keeps breaking, usually means it wasn't right to begin with."

He leaves with a nod and a clipboard signature. Sarah sits on the couch, watching the television people laugh at something that isn't funny. On the floor beside the couch, she sees it now — a single long hair, vivid orange, caught in the carpet fibers. Not from her head. Not from David's.

The cable reception is perfect now. Crystal clear. She can see everything.