High Water, Steel Cable

Marcus stood on the balcony of his forty-third floor apartment, nursing a vodka gimlet and watching the dark water of the East River churn below. The bull market had been generous to him—generous enough for this view, for the original Rothko on the wall, for the quiet understanding that his wife had left hours ago and might not return.

Inside, on a marble countertop that cost more than his first car, sat a wilted salad of organic spinach and goat cheese. Sarah had made it, something about him needing to take care of himself at forty-five. The irony wasn't lost on him.

"You're drowning, Marc," she'd said earlier, not raising her voice. That was the worst part—no screaming, no thrown glass. Just exhaustion, delivered calm and steady like a weather report. "You're drowning and you won't reach for the rope."

He'd laughed. He'd been drunk. He wasn't proud.

The coaxial cable behind the television had been loose for weeks. He kept meaning to fix it—somehow that tangled wire had become representative of everything in his life he couldn't quite bring himself to touch. Sarah had offered to call someone. He'd said no, he'd handle it.

The door clicked open.

Marcus didn't turn. He watched a barge push through the black water, heavy and inevitable.

"I'm back," Sarah said. She sounded tired. "I couldn't think of where else to go."

He turned. She stood in the doorway, coat still on, holding a plastic bag from the bodega on the corner.

"Bullshit," he said softly.

"What?"

"You could've gone to your sister's. The office. Anywhere. You came back."

She set the bag on the counter next to the spinach salad, now hopelessly warm. "I bought ice cream," she said. "The kind you like."

Marcus crossed the room, the vodka warm in his chest, and reached for her hand. His fingers found hers.

"I'll fix the cable tomorrow," he said.

"I know," she answered. "That's why I stayed."

They stood together as the refrigerator hummed, the building settling around them like a held breath, the river outside still moving, indifferent and endless.