Cable to Nowhere

Mara found the spinach between his teeth at dinner, a small green wedge stuck there like an accusation. Tom was laughing at something on his iPhone, his face illuminated by that familiar blue glow, his thumb scrolling through messages he'd tilt away from her view whenever she leaned too close.

She'd been a corporate spy for twelve years. She knew what secrets looked like, how they sat in a room, how they made the air feel heavy and charged. This was different. This was her marriage.

The coaxial cable running along the baseboard behind her—left exposed from the day they'd canceled cable but never bothered to remove it—caught her heel as she stood to clear the table. She stumbled. Tom didn't notice. He was typing now, his fingers moving fast, then erasing, then typing again. A woman's intuition was one thing. A spy's was something else entirely.

Later, when he fell asleep with his phone charging on the nightstand, she did what she'd promised herself she never would. She knew his passcode—their anniversary, which meant something, or maybe it meant nothing at all.

The messages were from his sister. Not work. Not another woman. Discussions about their mother's declining health, decisions Mara had been excluded from, conversations about care facilities and financial arrangements. Tom had been protecting her from the burden, carrying it alone like the coat he'd drape over her shoulders whenever she got cold.

She put the phone back exactly as she'd found it. In the morning, she made him spinach and eggs for breakfast. He smiled, that crinkle at the corners of his eyes she'd fallen in love with, and asked what had gotten into her lately.

"Nothing," she said, and for the first time in months, it wasn't a lie. "Just happy to see you."