Cables at the Bottom of the Pool

Marcus knelt on the hot concrete, sweat trickling down his temple as he spliced another fiber optic cable. The hotel rooftop pool shimmered blue behind him, but he couldn't enjoy it. At forty-three, his hair had started thinning at the crown, a betrayal his reflection reminded him of every morning.

"You missed a spot," Sarah said from the lounge chair. They hadn't spoken properly since the miscarriage three months ago—only these small, cutting remarks.

Marcus didn't look up. "Almost done."

He was upgrading the hotel's internet system, a job that paid enough but meant nothing. The cables snaked across the roof like black worms, carrying data for people who'd never think about the hands that connected them. His back ached. His marriage felt like something underwater, everything muffled and distant and slowly drowning.

"Remember when we were happy?" Sarah asked.

Marcus's fingers slipped. A sharp edge sliced his palm. Blood welled, bright and shocking against the black cable.

He stood up, walked to the pool's edge, and watched his reflection distort in the blue water. He looked like his father at that age. Same thinning hair. Same hollow eyes. The cable dangled from his hand, swaying like a question.

"I don't know," he said, which was the truth.

Sarah was quiet. Then: "The water looks nice."

It did. Cool and impossible. Marcus thought about jumping in—clothes, cables, wedding ring, everything. Instead he wrapped his bleeding hand in a rag and went back to work. Some connections you could splice. Others just frayed.