Disconnection

The cable guy arrived twenty minutes early, which was the first problem. Maya was still in her bathrobe, clutching her coffee like a lifeline, when the doorbell rang. The second problem was that she'd forgotten to cancel the appointment after Mark moved out, so now she was paying for premium channels she'd never watch alone.

"Sorry about the mess," she said, gesturing vaguely at the boxes stacked in the hallway. The divorce had been final for three weeks, but the apartment still felt like a crime scene.

The cable guy, whose name tag read ROGER, nodded understandingly. "Seen a lot of this lately."

He worked quickly while Maya sat on the floor, distracted. Their cat, Luna, wound between her legs, purring like a small motor. Mark had wanted joint custody. She'd told him to take the house instead.

"All set," Roger said, standing up. "You're all disconnected."

Disconnected. The word hung in the air like smoke. Her phone buzzed—her mother, again, wanting to know if she'd found a therapist yet. She let it go to voicemail.

After Roger left, Maya sat in the sudden quiet. Luna meowed, demanding breakfast. That's when she noticed the water stain spreading across the ceiling—a dark, blooming flower of decay she'd been ignoring for months, like the messages from her sister, like the ache in her chest that no amount of wine could touch.

The pipe above her bed, she realized, had been leaking quietly the whole time.

She stood up, legs shaky, and Luna rubbed against her ankles. In the bathroom mirror, Maya saw herself clearly for the first time in years: hollowed out, yes, but present. The water could be fixed. The cable could be reconnected later, or not. She turned on the faucet and watched the water run, cupping her hands beneath it, feeling something like grace in the simple fact of being here, still, with this cat who didn't care about the mess, only that Maya was staying.