Infinite Connection

The Florida heat pressed against Marcus's neck like a jealous lover as he climbed the telephone pole, his safety harness digging into his thighs. Thirty-seven years old and still installing cable for a living—sometimes he felt like a zombie, shuffling through the days, eating brains for breakfast, hearts for lunch, and never really tasting any of it.

He adjusted the coaxial cable with practiced fingers, sweat stinging his eyes. Below, Mrs. Henderson waited in her bathrobe, third time this week her "signal had been acting up." Marcus knew the real problem wasn't the cable. It was the silence in her house since her husband died last winter.

"All set, ma'am," Marcus said, dropping to the ground and wiping his palms on his work pants. "Should be crystal clear now."

She offered him sweet tea, her eyes lingering on his left hand—sun-browned, calloused, empty. The last time he'd felt a woman's palm against his had been three years ago, when Sarah walked out with half their savings and none of their memories.

"You're a good man," she said, and something in her voice made Marcus's chest hurt.

That night, he lay on his couch watching the channel he'd just installed—some reality show about people choosing houses in tropical locations. Palm trees swayed in the background of every shot. He thought about calling Sarah, but what was there to say? He was still the same man who couldn't promise her forever because he wasn't sure he believed in it anymore.

The cable box glowed in the darkness, a tiny blue eye watching him fall asleep alone. Tomorrow he'd climb another pole, fix another connection, pretend his life wasn't a series of interrupted signals. But for tonight, he pressed his own palm against the cool television screen, pretending for just a moment that someone was reaching back.