The Architecture of Loss

The coaxial cable lay coiled on the floor like a dead snake, its silver connector staring up at me—another thing Marcus forgot to take when he moved out last Tuesday. I'd been stepping over it for three days, a physical manifestation of the loose ends neither of us wanted to tie.

I sat on the living room floor, my iphone illuminating the dark room with its ghostly blue glow. Three missed calls from my mother. Two texts from coworkers asking if I was coming in tomorrow. And one message from Marcus: 'Left my baseball glove in the closet. Can you mail it?'

The audacity made me laugh, a dry humorless sound that bounced off the empty walls. Four years together, and he ends it with a text about a baseball glove he hadn't used since college.

My palm pressed against the window, leaving a foggy imprint on the cold glass. Outside, the city sprawled beneath me—a pyramid of human ambition, tier upon tier of lights and lives, while mine felt suddenly flat. I'd built this life with him. We'd planned. We'd talked about children, about buying a house, about growing old in a place where we could see palm trees from the window. Now it was just me and a rental unit with lease renewal coming up in six months.

The cable TV subscription we'd shared expired tomorrow. I should cancel it. I should do a lot of things.

Instead, I opened my palm and stared at the lines etched there, trying to remember what the fortune teller in New Orleans had said about them three years ago. Something about a long life line, a love that would weather storms. She hadn't mentioned the storms would win.

My phone buzzed again. Marcus. 'Please? It was my dad's.'

The glove had been his father's—dead five years now, same as mine. We'd bonded over that shared loss, sitting on this very floor, drinking cheap wine and trading stories we'd never told anyone else. Now even our grief was divided property.

I typed 'I'll mail it Monday,' then deleted it. Typed 'Come get it yourself,' deleted that too. Finally: 'It's in the mail.' A lie. One more to add to the collection.

Tomorrow I'd cable the new TV by myself. I'd figure out the lease. I'd be fine. But tonight, I pressed my palm to the glass one more time and watched the city lights flicker like stars I couldn't quite reach.