Poolside Epiphany

The cable box hung from the wall like a guilty confession, its blinking lights casting tiny accusations across the bedroom. Eddie stood before it, wire strippers in hand, thinking about the way his marriage had frayed—slowly, almost imperceptibly, until whole sections went dead.

He was thirty-nine years old, installing premium packages for people who could afford emotions he'd lost years ago. Today it was a penthouse downtown, overlooking the building's pool.

"Make yourself at home," the woman had said, before disappearing onto the balcony. She'd been wearing red, and Eddie's coworketer called her type a fox—the ones who ordered extra channels and smiled like they knew things about you.

Eddie worked silently. The television mounted over her bed would show everything eventually: news, catastrophes,Serialized lives. He connected the cable, wondering why people paid so much to be distracted from lives they claimed to want.

From the balcony, he heard laughter. Down at the pool, people moved through water like they'd never drown. He thought about last summer, when he and Maria had still gone to the neighborhood pool. How she'd looked at him across the water, how he'd stopped swimming toward her.

"All set," Eddie said finally.

The woman came inside, smelling of chlorine and expensive perfume. She handed him a tip, her fingers lingering. "You ever feel like you're watching your own life through a screen?" she asked.

Eddie looked at the cable box, its lights steady now. Then at her, really looked. "Every day," he said.

She nodded, like she'd expected this. "Most people do."

That evening, Eddie drove past his own apartment complex. The pool was empty, water still. He thought about going in—fully dressed, phone and wallet and all. Instead he went home, where Maria was watching television through the static of their unfinished conversation.

"Cable fixed out there?" she asked, not turning from the screen.

"Yeah," Eddie said. "But some channels you can't just install."