The Tether

Elena stood in her apartment doorway, the takeout container growing cold in her hands. The spinach and garlic pasta from Carmine's—Marcus's favorite before he left. She hadn't ordered it in six months.

Her golden retriever, Buster, pressed against her leg, his warm weight the only solid thing in a life that felt increasingly provisional. He'd been Marcus's dog originally, a joint custody arrangement that dissolved when Marcus stopped coming by for visitation.

"Just gonna grab my stuff," he'd said that last night. "The cable box, my records, the dog."

He'd taken the cable box. He'd taken the records. But when Elena had found Buster waiting by the door that evening, whining softly, she couldn't bring herself to call Marcus back. Let him go. Keep the tether.

Now the television was a dead black rectangle on the wall. Elena had canceled the cable service yesterday—final, unnecessary, petty. But she felt lighter without it. No monthly reminder of what she'd lost.

She set the pasta on the counter. Buster's tail thumped against the cabinet. He looked at her with such unconditional stupid love that her chest ached. He was the only one who hadn't left.

The phone buzzed. Marcus's name on the screen.

"Hey," she answered, surprised by the steadiness of her voice.

"Hey. Look, I don't want to make this weird, but I saw you canceled the cable. My password doesn't work anymore."

"Yeah. I canceled it."

"Oh. Okay." A pause. "I was gonna come by and grab some old shows I'd DVR'd. Nothing important. Just—never mind."

"Marcus."

"Yeah?"

"You can come get them. But call first."

"Thanks. And El? How's Buster?"

She looked down at the dog, who was now watching her with that terrible hope dogs have, like every human movement might be a treat or a walk or love returned.

"He's good," she said. "He's really good."

After she hung up, she scooped some pasta onto a plate. Spinach and garlic, rich and green and alive. Buster sat beside her, his chin resting on her knee, and she thought about how we keep going forward, dragging all these tethers behind us—some cut, some fraying, some still holding tight enough to keep us from floating away entirely.