The Lightning Split the Sky

The cable guy was forty minutes late, and Marcus had already finished his morning routine—shower, shave, the handful of vitamin supplements his ex-wife had insisted he start taking. What good were they now? She'd left six months ago, taking the dog, the good sheets, and Marcus's ability to sleep through the night.

The doorbell finally rang. A wiry man with salt-and-pepper hair climbed the stairs to Marcus's third-floor walkup, carrying a coil of thick black cable like a heavy rope.

"Sorry for the delay," the cable guy said, his nametag reading "GARY". "Last appointment ran over. Lady wouldn't stop talking about her dead cat."

Marcus stepped aside. "Whatever. Just fix it."

The apartment felt empty without Sarah's things. Her throw pillows were gone; her hair tie collection, once scattered across every surface like colorful jellyfish, had vanished. Only the baseball remained—his grandfather's signed glove from the 1956 World Series, displayed in its glass case, one of the few possessions Sarah had declared "too dusty" to remove.

Gary worked quickly, his movements efficient despite the small space. Outside, thunder rumbled through the oppressive July heat.

"Storm coming," Gary noted, stripping cable insulation with a practiced hand. "You got a grounding rod?"

"No idea."

"Should check. Lightning strike could fry everything." Gary glanced at Marcus, really looked at him for the first time. "You doing okay, man? You look like you haven't slept since the Bush administration."

Marcus laughed, surprised. "Is it that obvious?"

"My wife left me last year." Gary tightened a connection with his wrench. "First month, I lived on takeout and whiskey. Second month, I started running. Third month, I realized I could cook better than she ever could."

"Does it get better?"

Gary shrugged. "Different. Not better, not worse. Just different." He finished tightening the last screw. "There. You're all set."

Outside, lightning split the sky, illuminating the apartment in a brilliant flash. For a second, Marcus saw it all with sudden clarity: the baseball glove, the cable modem's blinking lights, Gary's weathered face, his own hands—trembling slightly.

"Hey," Gary said at the door. "Those vitamins? Keep taking them. She was right about that much."

Marcus watched him descend the stairs, cable trailing behind like umbilical cord. For the first time in months, he didn't immediately check his phone for a message that would never come.