The Fray

The cable frayed where it rubbed against the door frame—worn copper exposed like a nerve. Elena had been meaning to call the superintendent for three months.

"It's fine," she'd said each time, shoving the coaxial back behind the entertainment center. "We hardly watch TV anyway."

That wasn't true. They'd been watching more lately. It was easier than talking.

Marcus sat on their balcony now, nursing a whiskey he didn't want, watching palm trees sway against the purple sky of dusk. Below, the neighborhood softball game drifted up—laughter, the crack of bat, someone shouting "nice swing!" He remembered playing baseball with his father in the park near their old apartment. How his dad's hands felt teaching him to grip the bat. How, after the divorce, that stopped.

"Marcus?" Elena called from inside. "You coming to bed?"

He'd found out three weeks ago—her phone, a message from someone named Sam, plans for drinks that didn't include him. He hadn't confronted her. He'd just started watching baseball on the fuzzy cable channel, volume low, while she slept. Something about the rhythm of it. The waiting. The sharp clarity of each moment's outcome.

"In a minute," he said.

He ran his thumb along the frayed cable inside. A spark flickered—tiny, momentary. He thought about Sam's hands on her. Whether they knew her tells, the way she did that thing with her shoulder when she was pretending everything was fine. Whether Sam would bother to get the cable fixed.

"Marcus?"

He set down the whiskey. Walked to the bedroom door. Thought about the game downstairs—how someone, eventually, had to swing.

"We need to talk," he said.

Elena looked up from her book. The television flickered behind her, screen going dark as the cable finally gave way.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay."