The Unplugging

The HDMI cable lay coiled on the floor like a dead snake, its silver connectors catching the morning light. Three weeks since Elena left, and Mark still hadn't decided whether to step over it or pick it up.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his iPhone screen. No new messages. Not that he expected one—the divorce was final, the assets split, the cat custody settled. But some reflex in his thumb kept checking, kept scrolling through photos from better years. The battery showed 12%. The charging cable was somewhere in Elena's apartment now, along with his good pillow and the ability to sleep through the night.

Mark stood up and stretched. His knees popped—a reminder that thirty-seven wasn't twenty-five anymore. He opened the cabinet where he kept his supplements: vitamin D for the Portland gray, magnesium for the anxiety that kept him awake, B-complex for energy he never seemed to have. He dry-swallowed three capsules, washing them down with lukewarm coffee. The vitamins were new. Before Elena, he'd lived on takeout and optimism. Now he measured his health in milligrams and percentages.

Running helped. Sometimes.

He laced up his shoes—still the ones she'd bought him last Christmas, the note inside reading 'For miles together.' The irony tasted like bile. His feet hit the pavement at 6:03 AM, the same time every day, because routine was the only thing that didn't change.

The river path was mostly empty. A few other runners, heads down, earbuds in, everyone running from something or toward something, Mark couldn't tell which. He passed the spot where they'd picnicked last summer, the spot where she'd said 'I think we need to talk' two Octobers ago, the spot where he'd thrown his phone into the bushes last November after too many drinks.

His breathing fell into rhythm. For a mile, he thought about nothing. For the next mile, he thought about everything. The way she took her coffee. The cable guy who'd hit on her while Mark was at work. The vitamins she'd ordered him because 'you look tired all the time.'

The iPhone buzzed in his pocket.

Mark stopped running, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pulled it out, hands shaking. Not Elena. A notification: subscription renewal for his meditation app. $79.99 charged annually.

He laughed—a dry, ugly sound that startled a heron from the reeds.

Back at the apartment, the HDMI cable was still on the floor. Mark stepped over it, walked to the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. He opened the vitamin bottle again. Closed it. Opened the drawer where he'd tossed Elena's old charging cable three weeks ago, the one she'd forgotten.

He plugged in his phone.

12%... 13%... 14%.

The numbers climbed like tiny promises. Maybe tomorrow he'd pick up the HDMI cable. Maybe tomorrow he'd unsubscribe from the meditation app. Maybe tomorrow he'd stop running the same route, stop waiting for a phone that wouldn't ring.

Mark sat on the floor, back against the bed, watching the battery percentage rise. Some things, he realized, you had to recharge before you could unplug them again.