The Cable Between Us

Marcus sat in his living room, the glow of the television illuminating the empty takeout containers on his coffee table. A baseball game played—ninth inning, two outs, runners in scoring position—but he couldn't focus on the screen. Not without Benny.

They'd watched every Sunday together for twelve years. Through divorces, layoffs, that time Benny's mother died. Baseball had been the soundtrack to their friendship, the comfortable silence between them filled with play-by-plays they both pretended to understand better than they did.

Then came the spinach.

Benny had texted him at 2 AM from the ER: *eaten some bad spinach, kidneys shutting down, they're saying maybe temporary but maybe not*. Marcus had laughed, thinking it was one of Benny's dark jokes. But the joke was on him—on both of them. It hadn't been spinach poisoning. It had been kidney failure, unrelated and coincidental, but the timing of that text message—how Benny had tried to minimize it, make it small, make it funny—had broken something in Marcus.

His cable bill arrived the next day. Forty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents for the sports package they no longer watched together. He'd almost called Benny to complain about it, like he used to. Instead, he'd stared at the bill until the numbers blurred.

Now his phone buzzed.

*Bennycakes*: You watching?

Marcus stared at the message. Benny never used that nickname anymore. Not since the diagnosis. Not since the transplant list. Not since the hospital visits where Marcus had sat in sterile waiting rooms, helpless, while his friend—his best friend, the brother he'd chosen—fought for his life.

*Marcus*: Yeah.

*Bennycakes*: They're bringing in the closer.

*Marcus*: I know.

*Bennycakes*: Remember when we drove to Detroit that time?

*Marcus*: For the playoffs. When we got stranded.

*Bennycakes*: Ate gas station hot dogs for three days.

*Marcus*: You puked in the rental.

*Bennycakes*: Good times.

Marcus's thumb hovered over the call button. He hadn't seen Benny in six months—not since the transplant, since everything changed, since the easiness between them curdled into something sharp and careful. He missed the way things used to be, the way they could sit in silence for hours and never feel the need to fill it.

The game went to commercial. Marcus pressed call.

"You're still paying for the sports package," Benny said by way of greeting.

"Habit," Marcus said.

"It's been a year, Marc."

"I know."

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. This was the cable that connected them now—frayed, static-filled, but still there. Still carrying something.

"The spinach wasn't bad," Benny said quietly. "I just didn't know how else to say I was scared."

Marcus closed his eyes. "I know."

"I didn't want you to see me like that."

"I saw you anyway."

"Yeah." Benny laughed, but it sounded wet. "You did."

On the television, the game returned. The batter stepped in. The pitch flew toward the plate.

"Come over," Marcus said. "This inning's gonna kill us."

"I'm bringing the spinach dip," Benny said.

"Don't you dare."

Marcus turned up the volume as the pitch connected—crack of the bat, roar of the crowd. For the first time in a year, the static between them began to clear.