Cable Dreams and Goldfish

Mara stood at the kitchen counter, watching her goldfish - she'd named him Borges - swim endless circles in his bowl. Some days she felt more like the zombie than he did, moving through her corporate job with dead eyes and rehearsed responses.

The cable guy was late. Of course he was. She'd taken the afternoon off work, using PTO she'd likely lose in the layoffs next month. The orange glow of sunset filtered through the blinds, catching dust motes that danced like tiny, indifferent stars.

"Sorry about the wait," he said when he finally arrived. Young. Maybe twenty-five. A name tag that read 'Fox'.

She gestured to the tangled mess of wires behind her TV. "It's all dead. No internet, no signal. Just static."

Fox worked efficiently, his hands deft despite the nervous energy he radiated. "You okay?" he asked suddenly, not looking at her.

Mara laughed, surprised by the question. "Why?"

"You look... I don't know. Like you've seen some shit."

She studied him then - really looked. Dark circles under his eyes, wedding ring tan line on his finger, the way his hands trembled slightly when he paused.

"Got laid off Tuesday," he continued, conversationally. "Third time this year. Wife says I should just quit the industry entirely."

Mara found herself telling him about Borges the goldfish, about the way she'd started talking to him like a therapist. About her dead mother's collection of ceramic frogs that now gathered dust on her shelves. About the dreams where she was underwater, breathing like the fish, weightless and silent.

"We're all just swimming in circles," Fox said, stripping coax cable with practiced ease. "Waiting for something to happen."

When he finished, he didn't leave immediately. They sat on her worn couch and watched the static clear into reality - HGTV home improvement shows, cooking competitions, the infinite scroll of other people's lives.

"I could come back," he said. "Check the signal again in a few days."

"The cable doesn't need checking," she said quietly.

"No," Fox agreed. "It doesn't."

He left his phone number on a cable company invoice, scrawled beside the total due. Later that night, Mara watched Borges swim to the surface, break the water with a small gasp of air, and retreat again. She dialed the number.

"Hello?" His voice sounded hopeful.

"My goldfish is lonely," she said. "And I think I might be too."