Cable to Nowhere

The television flickered—another strike on the baseball game, another night alone in the apartment that still smelled like her lavender shampoo. Tom ran his thumb over the remote control, feeling the indentation where she'd chipped it during their last fight.

The cable bill sat unpaid on the counter, a white envelope gathering dust like the marriage itself. Three months since she'd packed her bags, since she'd called himemotionally stunted and left him to his routines, his safe predictable patterns that drove her crazy.

A fox darted past the window—a flash of rust-colored fur against the gray Boston evening. Tom watched it move with that predatory grace she'd had, that way of looking at you like you were prey and she was deciding whether to pounce or walk away.

He should be running. That's what the therapist said. Exercise, movement, forward momentum. Instead he sat here, watching men in tight uniforms swing at balls, drinking lukewarm beer from a can he'd opened three hours ago.

The cable guy was supposed to come between noon and four. It was now seven. Typical.

His phone buzzed—a text from her. Just an emoji: a fox.

Tom stared at it until the screen went dark, until the reflection showed him a man who'd stopped playing the game years ago, stood at the plate watching every pitch go by, too paralyzed to swing. The fox outside paused, looked back at him through the glass, and then disappeared into the darkness.

The baseball crowd roared on the television. Someone hit a home run.

Tom stood up, turned off the TV, and finally went for his run.