The Last Lifeline

The coaxial cable lay coiled on the carpet like a dead snake, its copper heart exposed where she'd ripped it from the wall. Three years of cable news, of weeping together over mass shootings, of laughing at cooking shows they'd never actually cook for — all severed in a moment of clarity that felt more like madness.

Her husband hadn't just left. He'd evaporated, leaving behind only the cat and a silence that rang in her ears like tinnitus.

Now she swam.

Not literally — there was no pool, no ocean, just the bathtub filled with lukewarm water that she climbed into at 3 AM. But the sensation was the same. Weightless. Suspended. The water swallowed the sound of her phone, silenced the notifications that still came from friends who didn't know what to say.

"You okay?"

"We should grab coffee."

"I heard what happened."

She let them drown unanswered.

The cat, a calico named Mercy that David had brought home drunk one night, watched from the bathroom threshold. Yellow eyes unblinking. Judgment suspended, perhaps, or merely irrelevant. Animals didn't mourn the way humans did. They moved on. They ate when hungry, slept when tired, accepted the world as it presented itself.

She wanted that. The luxury of not knowing what was missing.

The water grew cold around her. Somewhere in the apartment, her work laptop sat open, its own tangle of cables charging overnight, tethering her to tomorrow. Another Zoom call. Another spreadsheet. Another performance of someone who wasn't hollowed out, who didn't spend hours swimming in porcelain tubs while her cat watched like a small, furry philosopher.

She stood up, water dripping onto the tile, and reached for the towel. Tomorrow she would call the cable company. She would resubscribe. She would let the noise back in.

But not tonight. Tonight she would swim a little longer, in the quiet, with only Mercy for witness.