Cable to Nothing

The coaxial cable lay coiled like a dead snake beside Marcus's apartment door, a remnant of the life he'd cancelled three months ago when he decided to stop paying eighty dollars monthly to watch other people live. His friend Elena had called it 'brave' the first time, then 'concerning' the fifth, then just stopped asking.

They were supposed to meet at the padel court at six. Marcus arrived at five-forty, sat on the bench, and watched through the chain-link as an orange sunset bled into the bruising purple of evening. His racquet rested against his leg—expensive carbon fiber he'd bought during what he now called his Zombie Period, that stretch of eight months after Sarah left when he'd moved through days on autopilot, signing up for memberships and classes and social obligations he had no intention of following through on.

Elena was fifteen minutes late when she finally appeared, breathless, carrying her gear bag like it weighed nothing. She'd been his anchor through the Zombie Period, showing up with takeout and bad movies and refusing to let him rot.

"You look like hell," she said, dropping onto the bench beside him.

"I feel like hell."

"Work?"

"Existence."

She laughed, then stopped when she saw his face. The orange light had faded to gray. Beyond the court's high fences, the city's lights flickered on—a constellation of windows and streetlamps, each one someone else's life.

"My therapist asked if I feel like I'm waiting for something to start," Marcus said, staring at his hands. "I told her no. I think I'm waiting for permission to stop."

Elena reached over, squeezed his knee. "You don't need permission. But you do need to hit this ball back when I serve it."

They played until darkness swallowed the court. Marcus's muscles burned. His racquet connected with ball after ball, a rhythmic *thwack* that felt almost like a heartbeat. For an hour, he wasn't a zombie or a failure or a man who'd let his subscription to living lapse. He was just sweat and motion and the sound of his own breathing.

Afterward, sitting on the same bench in the dark, Elena said, "Next week, same time?"

Marcus thought about the cable beside his door. He thought about the eightieth dollars.

"Yeah," he said. "Same time."