The Last Cable

Elaine sat on the floor of her half-empty apartment, surrounded by cardboard boxes that smelled like old newspapers and regret. The cable guy was due in ten minutes, and she was running late for her own life.

She caught her reflection in the dark television screen—dark hair falling across her face, stark against her pale skin. The same hair Richard had run his fingers through three years ago in this very room, promising forever while her grandmother's clock ticked against the wall.

Now Richard was gone, and so was the clock.

The buzzer rang. She let him in without checking, something her mother had warned against since she was sixteen.

The cable guy was younger than she expected, with hair that caught the afternoon light through her blinds. He worked silently, testing connections, his back to her as she watched from the floor.

"Water damage," he said, holding up a frayed coaxial cable. "See how it's corroded? Must've been a leak somewhere."

She nodded, thinking of the tears she'd cried over this same floor last month, how they'd pooled around the baseboard where the cable entered the wall.

"Running away from the problem won't fix it," he continued, mistaking her silence for something else entirely. "Same with water. You let it sit, everything rots."

He replaced the cable, his hands moving with practiced efficiency. She watched the cable tighten, a thin black umbilical cord reconnecting her to the world of Netflix and escapism.

"All set," he said, gathering his tools. "You're all connected now."

He left, and she was alone again with the hum of electronics and the echo of his words. She turned on the television, watched pixels flicker into existence, and wondered what exactly she was connected to anymore.

Outside, rain began to fall against her windows, running down the glass like the tears she couldn't seem to cry anymore. She pulled her hair back from her face and stood up, leaving the television murmuring to no one.