Tethered

Martha knelt beside the television, her knees cracking like dry twigs. Behind the entertainment center, a rat's nest of cables—coaxial, HDMI, power—waited like black snakes. The Comcast technician was coming between 9 and 1, which meant 3:15, and she'd finally decided to straighten the mess herself. Three years of cable news droning in the background while Robert graded papers at the kitchen table, both of them drifting toward separate bedrooms.

A gray hair fell onto her forearm as she reached deeper. She pulled it loose—Robert's, from where he'd fallen asleep watching election results. She should tell him about the appointment tomorrow. The dermatologist would probably biopsy it.

The cat, a calico named Muriel who had chosen Robert years ago and never looked back, appeared in the doorway. Muriel watched Martha with yellow eyes, then padded away. Robert had joked once that the cat was their marriage counselor: she knew who needed space and who needed attention. Martha had laughed, but the joke had landed in the pit of her stomach where all his jokes about growing old together lived now—small, sharp stones.

Her phone vibrated on the floor. Robert: Grading done. Pasta okay?

Martha's fingers brushed something wet. A pipe must be leaking behind the wall. Water seeped from a small crack in the drywall, darkening the dust on the baseboard. She watched it spread, thinking about flood insurance, about the basement where they stored Robert's dissertation drafts and her mother's photo albums, about how water could take anything given enough time.

The technician would see the water damage. He'd ask questions. She'd have to explain.

Martha pulled her hand back and left the cables tangled. She stood up, knees screaming, and typed: Pasta sounds perfect. See you soon.

In the bathroom mirror, she found another gray hair, then another. She left them.