Knotted Cables and Dog Ears

Marcus stood in the center of his living room, surrounded by the cardboard remains of his marriage. Sarah had been gone for three weeks, and this was the night he'd finally dismantle the evidence of their life together.

The dog, Buster—a golden retriever they'd adopted six years ago—lay on the rug, watching with what Marcus swore was judgment. Buster had chosen sides. Sarah's side.

He grabbed the cable box first, its LED light blinking like a dying heartbeat. The cables snaked behind the entertainment center, tangled like their arguments. He followed them with his fingers, remembering how Sarah used to complain about the mess, how she'd threatened to call someone to organize it. She never did. She never did a lot of things.

The television flickered on, frozen on the baseball game from the night she left. Yankees vs. Red Sox, bottom of the ninth. They'd been watching it together, pretending everything was fine, pretending they weren't living parallel lives in the same house. The score remained tied, much like them—stalemate, no winners.

Marcus yanked the cables from the wall. Something snapped inside him, too.

He moved to the kitchen next. On the counter, her vitamin organizer sat like a colorful accusation. Monday through Sunday, each compartment filled with pills she swore made her feel better, made her feel alive. They hadn't worked. Or maybe they had, and the version of herself they produced no longer loved him.

He dumped them into the trash. B12 for energy. Iron for her blood. Calcium for bones that would someday break, hearts that would someday stop. He wondered if she remembered to take them without him there to remind her.

Buster let out a soft whine.

"What?" Marcus snapped. "You want to go with her? Go. The door's open."

The dog didn't move. His brown eyes stayed fixed on Marcus, patient and forgiving in a way Sarah never was. In a way Marcus didn't deserve.

He slumped onto the sofa, the baseball game still glowing behind him. The cables lay scattered around his legs like severed limbs. The vitamins settled in the trash alongside their life. And the dog—Sarah's dog—rested his head on Marcus's knee.

Marcus closed his eyes. For the first time in three weeks, he cried—not quiet tears, but the kind that wreck you, the kind that leave you hollowed out and strange.

When he opened his eyes, Buster was still there. The cable box still pulsed with its dying light. The baseball game had ended, though he hadn't seen who won.

Some things, he realized, would remain knotted forever. Some games finished without resolution. And some loves—like some dogs—stayed when they should have walked away.