Signal Loss

The cable guy was late, which meant I was late, which meant I missed the funeral. Not that I would have gone anyway.

Sarah and I hadn't spoken in three years, not since the night she told me she was marrying him — the man whose hat she'd worn to every baseball game since college, the man who looked at me like I was a shark swimming in the shallow end of their relationship.

I watched the cable guy splice wires with practiced fingers, his knuckles scarred and swollen. He didn't ask why I was crying. Just worked in silence while I sat on the floor of the apartment Sarah and I had shared, surrounded by boxes I still hadn't unpacked.

"Don't be a stranger," she'd said at the wedding, her new husband's hand possessive on her lower back. I'd nodded, worn my best friend smile, gone swimming in the open bar until I couldn't feel anything at all.

Now the cable guy was packing up. "You're all set, miss."

I looked at the TV, flickering to life with some daytime talk show. Just noise and light stretching across the distance between us. I thought about calling her. She'd be three months pregnant by now. She'd want to know if I was seeing anyone, if I was happy, if I'd finally unpacked those boxes.

Instead I found her old baseball cap under the couch, stained with something that might have been wine or might have been tears. I put it on backward, like she used to. That worn, faded hat was all I had left of our friendship, really.

I sent her a text: "The cable guy finally came. It took him three hours. Nothing works like it's supposed to."

She didn't write back. But three minutes later, I saw her status update: "Some friendships are like bad cable connections — full of static and interruptions, but sometimes the signal comes through clear anyway."

I called her then. We talked about nothing and everything until my phone died.