Disconnect

Marcus had been running from the truth for three months. The清晨 runs along Lake Michigan became his only refuge from the mortgage payment that was now 47 days past due, from the boxes in the garage he couldn't bring himself to unpack since Elena left.

At 42, he'd discovered his first gray hair three weeks ago—just one, stark and defiant at his temple. He'd pulled it, like that would somehow reverse time, reverse the layoff, reverse everything.

"Mr. Henderson?" The cable technician's voice jarred him back to his living room. "I can cut your bill in half if you sign up for the bundled package."

Marcus stared at the wall where their 65-inch TV used to hang. He'd sold it last month—Elena's TV, technically, though she'd left it behind along with everything else.

"Cancel it," Marcus said. "All of it."

"You sure? That's your internet too, man."

"Cancel it."

Two hours later, he sat in the sudden quiet of his apartment, no background noise to drown out his thoughts. He made himself dinner—sautéed spinach and eggs, Elena's favorite breakfast for dinner, back when they had favorites. Back when he believed in forever.

The spinach stuck in his teeth, a small indignity among larger ones. He washed the dishes, packed another box for storage, and found himself at the door with his running shoes on before he could think better of it.

The evening air hit him, cool and indifferent. He ran until his lungs burned, until he couldn't feel the absence of her beside him, until the gray hair and the canceled cable and the spinach dinner faded into the rhythm of his breath.

In and out. Forward. Still moving.

He'd face tomorrow when it came. For now, this was enough.