The Signal Fades

The cable guy was three hours late, and Elena was a zombie by the time he arrived. She'd spent the morning crying in the shower, watching her hair spiral down the drain like something dying, thinking about how Mark used to wrap it around his fingers when they made love. Now he barely touched her.

"Ma'am?" The technician's voice cut through her haze. She realized she was staring at his boots. "The signal's weak. Something's blocking the line."

"That's me," she said, surprising herself. "I'm the blockage."

He looked at her like she was crazy, then went back to wrestling wires behind the television. Their pit bull mix, Buster, lay on his dog bed, thumping his tail occasionally—a metronome for this domestic collapse.

On the counter, the papaya Mark bought yesterday sat softening in the afternoon heat. He'd been trying lately, bringing home fruit like peace offerings, as if tropical vitamins could fix seven years of eroding trust. He'd cooked dinner three times this week. He'd asked about her job. It was almost worse than the cold silence—the desperation made it real.

"All set," the cable guy said, wiping his hands on a rag. "You should check the connection now."

She flipped through channels, landing on a zombie marathon. The undead shambled across the screen, relentless and hungry, and she thought about marriage—the way two people could keep moving forward long after the soul had died, driven by habit and fear of the alternative.

Mark would be home in two hours. The papaya would need to be eaten or thrown away. Buster would need walking. She'd smile at her husband's stories about his day, and they'd pretend this was enough.

"Thank you," she told the technician, and meant it. At least someone had fixed something.