The Weight of Connections

The coaxial cable hung between my fingers like a dead snake, its copper core exposed to the fluorescent glare of the thirty-third floor. I'd been running cable for fourteen years, threading these black arteries through the city's buildings, connecting people to things they didn't need.

"You still doing that bullshit job?" Marcus had asked the last time we spoke. That was six months ago, before he decided my friendship wasn't worth his sobriety. Some friends are like that — they love you until they love themselves more.

The client's door opened behind me. "Everything working?" she asked, not meeting my eyes. She looked like Marcus's ex-wife — tired around the edges, holding herself together with caffeine and silent prayers.

"Should be good now," I said. "Your friend on the fourth floor had the same issue last week."

"She's not my friend," the woman said sharply. "She's my sister. There's a difference."

I nodded. There always was.

Driving home, I passed the stock market's electronic billboard. "BULL MARKET ENTERS THIRD YEAR," it screamed in angry red letters. The city was drunk on optimism again. Marcus had invested everything he had in tech stocks before the crash, convinced he'd finally found a way to stop installing drywall for a living. The margin call had taken his house, his marriage, and nearly his mind.

That's when he'd started drinking. That's when I'd stopped being his friend and started being his enabler.

The cellular tower at the edge of town stood against the sunset, its cables humming with invisible conversations. I thought about calling him, just to hear his voice. But some connections are better left severed. Some cables shouldn't be reconnected.

At home, my own cable box glowed in the darkness, delivering news of crashes, wars, and celebrity scandals into my empty living room. I sat on the couch and watched it all, feeling the weight of every connection I'd made and broken, every friend I'd loved and lost, every lie I'd told myself about how tomorrow would be different.

The bull market would crash again. Marcus would probably find another bottle. And I'd be here, running cable through buildings full of strangers, connecting them to everything except each other.