Unconnected Service

Marcus stood on the padel court at 7 AM, the artificial lights humming overhead like dying cicadas. Three months ago, Elena would have been across the net, her laugh sharp as she returned his serve with unnecessary aggression. Now the court echoed with his solitary footsteps, the glass walls reflecting a man who'd forgotten how to play doubles.

The cable bill had arrived yesterday—another invoice addressed to both of them, another reminder that everything remained technically connected despite the absolute silence between them. He'd stopped calling the cable company after the second week of her absence. What was the point of high-definition entertainment when the person who'd curated every streaming subscription now lived somewhere else?

He moved to the net, practicing volleys against the rebound wall. His therapist had suggested exercise, structure, anything to fill the hours that used to belong to them. So he played padel alone at dawn, then visited his mother's apartment where the goldfish floated in its corner tank, orange and indifferent.

"He needs feeding twice a day," his mother would say, confusing him with Elena, or perhaps with his father, or with whoever had once consistently appeared in this apartment before the dementia unraveled everyone's names. "The goldfish, I mean. Not your father. He's gone."

The goldfish watched Marcus with its unblinking eye. He'd started talking to it during visits, recounting his failed attempts at normalcy. The fish knew everything now—about the padel league he'd quit, the job promotion he'd turned down because it would've required moving to Elena's neighborhood, the cable subscriptions he couldn't bring himself to cancel.

Today, the goldfish swam to the surface, its mouth opening and closing in silent judgment. Marcus leaned close to the tank.

"I cancelled the cable today," he whispered. "Finally."

The fish continued its eternal patrol, unimpressed.

"Maybe that's progress," he said aloud. "Or maybe I just can't afford it anymore."

His mother shuffled into the room, her eyes clearing for a moment. "Marcus? Is that you?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Did you feed the goldfish?"

"Not yet."

"Well, don't forget. He gets lonely."

Marcus watched the fish complete another loop around its small universe, orange scales flashing in the tank's artificial light. He thought about the padel court gathering dust, about the cable box dark in his living room, about all the small connections that maintained the illusion of a life.

"I know," he said. "I know exactly how that feels."