The Cable Between Us

Eliot lay on the hotel room bed, watching the cable news flicker in silence—Miranda had turned the volume down two hours ago. Outside, the Chicago wind howled, but inside, the air between them had gone completely still.

"You're doing it again," she said, not looking up from her phone. "That bull-headed thing where you refuse to acknowledge what's actually happening."

"What's actually happening, Miranda?" Eliot sat up, the scratchy hotel blanket sliding to his waist. "We're at a conference. We're supposed to be networking."

"We haven't spoken about the miscarriage in three months." Her voice was dangerously calm. "But sure, let's talk about networking."

Their cat back home, a calico named Pants, had been Eliot's idea—a domestic gesture to prove he was ready for the family they'd been trying to start. Now the thought of returning to an empty apartment made his chest hurt.

"I'm processing," Eliot said, though they both knew it was a lie. He wasn't processing. He was buried under layers of the same bullshit corporate strategy he sold to clients: move forward, pivot, don't look at the numbers.

Miranda finally looked at him. "You know what my mother said when I called her? She said, 'Men like Eliot don't change. They just get more efficient at being themselves.'"

"That's—"

"Don't." She stood up. "I'm going for a walk. Don't wait up."

Eliot watched her go. The door clicked shut, and he was alone with the muted television and the realization that some connections, unlike the ones he installed for a living, couldn't be repaired with copper wire and patience. Some lines simply went dead.