Disconnection

The golden retriever—Barnaby—sat by the door, his tail thumping a slow, hopeful rhythm against the baseboard. He'd been waiting for two hours. Sarah knew this because she'd been marking time in fifteen-minute increments, her iPhone lighting up the darkened living room with each notification that wasn't him.

"He's not coming back," she whispered to the dog, though she wasn't sure if she was trying to convince Barnaby or herself. The animal tilted his head, his brown eyes understanding everything and nothing at once.

She'd unplugged the television cable earlier, creating a physical gap where entertainment used to flow—an apt metaphor, she'd thought bitterly, for the space between her and David. They'd been orbiting each other for months, two satellites drifting in widening arcs, until something finally snapped. Not dramatically. No shouting, no thrown objects. Just David standing in the kitchen last night, saying he couldn't do this anymore, and Sarah realizing with terrifying clarity that she didn't want him to stay.

Her iPhone buzzed again. Her mother, checking in. Sarah ignored it, pressing the screen to her chest until the warmth faded. The device had become a strange tether in recent weeks—a conduit for performative normalcy, Instagram stories of breakfasts and sunsets, carefully curated evidence that she was fine, absolutely fine, while the hours stretched long and silent in this apartment they'd chosen together, painted together, made love in together before everything went quiet.

Barnaby sighed, resting his chin on his paws. David's dog, technically. But Sarah was the one who'd walked him every morning at 6 AM through three winters. The dog seemed to be waiting for her to make the next move, to establish some new routine.

She stood up slowly, joints stiff from the sofa, and walked to the door. Barnaby scrambled up, tail wagging again. Sarah clipped his leash to his collar, grabbed the plastic baggie she'd stopped bothering with since David left, and opened the door to the cold October night.

"Okay," she said to the empty street, to the dog, to the version of herself she was about to become. "Let's go be alone together."