The Last Fiber

The spinach stuck between his incisors like a green flag of surrender. Elena noticed it immediately—she always did—but said nothing. That was the problem, wasn't it? The silence between them had grown comfortable, like an old sweater with holes in it.

"Did you call the cable company?" David asked, pushing his food around his plate.

"Not today." She took a sip of wine. "Maybe tomorrow."

The cable had been out for three weeks. Neither of them had bothered to schedule a repair. In the beginning, they'd watched shows together—she'd rest her feet on his lap, he'd play with her hair. Now the television sat dead in the corner like an altar to something they'd stopped believing in.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky open. Rain drummed against the windows, urgent and relentless.

"I'm sleeping in the guest room tonight," David said.

Elena nodded. She'd expected this. She'd been waiting for it, really.

The spinach was still there. She wanted to reach across the table and pick it out with her fingernail, the way she used to when they were young and drunk on cheap wine and the terrifying thrill of falling in love. But she didn't. She watched him watch the storm, his reflection ghost-like in the darkened window.

"You know," she said, "the cable guy came by last week. I turned him away."

David turned to her, finally. "Why?"

"Because I knew you wouldn't fix it anyway. You'd just watch. You'd just sit there and watch and I'd sit there and watch and we'd call that being together."

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the spinach between his teeth, the lines around his eyes, the way his mouth hung slightly open—he looked like a stranger. Like someone she'd met once, a long time ago, at a party she couldn't quite remember.

"You could have told me," he said.

"I could have told you a lot of things."

The storm grew louder. The power flickered, died. They sat in darkness, no cable, no lights, no phone charging in the corner. Just the two of them and the remnants of dinner and the rain.

Elena reached across the table. Her fingers found his face in the dark, found the spinach, brushed it away. His breath caught.

"Fix it," she whispered. "Fix the cable. Or fix us. But David, please, fix something."

He began to cry, silent and harsh. The spinach sat on the table between them like a tiny green leaf of possibility.