Unspooled

The cable guy was three hours late, which gave Marc too much time to think. He sat on the floor of what used to be his living room, surrounded by labeled boxes, and watched his thumb trace the worn stitching of the old baseball he'd found in Elena's nightstand. A gift from her father, the man who'd taught Marc everything about the game—the patient catching, the swing mechanics, the way a good play could make you forgive almost anything.

He'd been running every morning since she left. Five miles, regardless of weather, as if distance traveled equaled dignity reclaimed. His knees ached constantly now, a dull throb he refused to acknowledge. The vitamin supplements on the kitchen counter—his, not hers—remained unopened, a testament to his conviction that self-improvement might still matter.

"Sorry about the wait," the cable technician said, finally appearing in the doorway. He was young, maybe twenty-two, with apologetic eyes and a name tag that read JAVIER. "Previous job ran long. Older house, complicated wiring."

"It's fine," Marc said, though nothing was fine. "Just disconnect everything. I don't need it transferred."

Javier worked efficiently, his movements practiced. Marc watched him coil the black cables like snakes, unscrewing connections that had delivered their shared life: movies they'd fallen asleep to, news they'd argued over, baseball games they'd watched in comfortable silence. Unspooling, inch by inch.

"You sure you don't want to keep the account?" Javier asked, surprised. "Good customer for six years."

"I'm sure."

When Javier left, the house felt somehow emptier, as if the cables had been holding it together. Marc walked through the sliding glass door to the backyard. The pool—green now, neglected—stared back at him. They'd swum naked out here last September, drunk on cheap wine and the certainty that they'd figured something out. The water had felt like forgiveness.

He stood at the edge for a long time. Then he picked up the baseball, wound back, and threw it as hard as he could toward the neighbors' yard. It disappeared into the dusk, a final unspooling.

Tomorrow he'd stop running. Tomorrow he'd take the vitamins. Tomorrow felt like something he could maybe, eventually, do.