The Signal We Lost

The cable had been out for three days when Marco finally called the provider. Maria sat at the kitchen table, watching his back as he paced by the window, phone pressed to his ear. She remembered when they'd moved into this apartment—how they'd argued about which package to choose, which premium channels mattered. They'd compromised on the middle tier, a symbolic surrender they'd both recognized even then.

'Forty-five minutes,' Marco said, hanging up. 'He says it's probably the line outside.'

Maria nodded. In the living room, their goldfish—Jerome, named after Maria's eccentric uncle—circled his bowl in endless, patient loops. They'd bought him on their fifth anniversary, another compromise: Maria wanted a dog, Marco wanted nothing that required walking. Now, five years later, Jerome was the only living thing that had witnessed everything: the fights about money, the nights Marco slept on the sofa, the morning Maria found the pregnancy test in the bathroom trash, negative again.

'Maybe this is a sign,' Maria said, not looking at him. 'We don't need it.'

Marco turned. 'What?'

The cable. The noise. The constant stream of other people's lives filling the silence between them.

'I read this article,' Maria continued, her voice tight, 'about goldfish memory. Supposedly they can remember things for months, not seconds. Scientists proved it.' She traced a pattern on the table with her fingertip. 'I keep thinking about Jerome in there. What does he remember? Does he remember when we were happy?'

'Maria.' Marco's voice had that careful quality, like he was approaching a frightened animal.

'Or is it just the same loop, over and over? Swim, eat, swim, eat. Like we're building this pyramid of a life together, but it's just—' She stopped, swallowing hard. 'Just structure hiding emptiness inside.'

The technician arrived forty minutes later. Young, bored, efficient. He climbed the utility pole outside their window with practiced ease, tightening connections, testing signals. Maria and Marco stood together at the window, watching him work, not touching. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the room, catching the scales of the goldfish in brief flashes of copper and gold.

'Fixed,' the technician said from below. 'Should be working now.'

Marco picked up the remote. Pressed power. The TV flickered to life—some reality show they'd never seen, people shouting about betrayal and forgiveness. He changed the channel. Then again. Nothing fit.

'Forty-five dollars a month,' Marco said quietly, still pointing the remote at the screen. 'For what we're not saying to each other.'

Maria looked at Jerome, still circling his bowl, remembering every version of them. She reached across the sofa, found Marco's free hand, and intertwined her fingers with his. The signal had returned, but something else had already left the building.