The Unplugging

Mia stood in their bedroom, the morning light gray and unforgiving. On his nightstand, the amber prescription bottle caught her eye—his vitamin D supplements, bought after the doctor's appointment where they'd learned about his bone density. Fifty years old and suddenly fragile. He'd taken them religiously for three months, right up until last week.

She picked up the bottle. Half full.

In the bathroom, her own reflection stared back. She'd stopped coloring her hair six months ago, letting the silver come in at the temples. David had said he loved it—said it made her look distinguished, authentic. That was before he stopped seeing her, really seeing her.

A single strand of dark hair coiled on the sink. Long, not hers. Not his buzz cut either.

She walked to the living room where David slept on the couch, fully clotholed, one arm thrown over his eyes. The television flickered silently—some cable news program at quarter volume. They'd cable-cut five years ago to save money, then reinstated it when his mother got sick and needed 24-hour news to feel connected to the world. She'd died in March. They'd kept the cable anyway.

Mia found the coaxial cable behind the entertainment center, thick and black as a snake. Her fingers worked at the connection where it screwed into the wall. The metal was cold.

She remembered their wedding night, twenty-three years ago. How he'd kissed each of her temples where the gray would eventually come. How he'd promised to see her always, to really see her, even when she was old and changed.

The cable disconnected with a soft click. The screen went black.

David stirred. "Mia?"

She dropped the cable on the floor. It coiled like a question mark.

"I'm seeing Laura on Tuesday," she said. "She knows a lawyer."

He lowered his arm from his eyes. In the sudden quiet of the room, no longer filled with the television's murmuring, the silence between them felt finally, completely honest.