What Remains Connected

The coaxial cable lay coiled on the floor like a dead snake, its copper guts exposed where she'd yanked it from the wall during the argument that ended everything. Six months later, Richard still hadn't called to have the internet restored. Some disconnections felt permanent.

His hair had started thinning at thirty-one, a betrayal that made him scrutinize his reflection in the darkened television screen each evening. His father had kept his thick mane well into his fifties. What was Richard losing, besides her?

Buster, the golden retriever they'd adopted together, lifted his head from the worn rug and thumped his tail rhythmically against the floorboards. The dog had stopped waiting by the door three months ago, but sometimes, Richard would catch him staring at the empty corner where her reading chair used to sit.

"She's not coming back, buddy," Richard whispered, the first time he'd said it aloud. Buster sighed, resting his chin on his paws.

Outside, winter pressed against the windows. Inside, the silence had grown comfortable, like an old sweater. That was the betrayal, really—how easily he'd settled into this smaller life. How little he missed her raised voice, the way she'd criticize his hair, the endless scrolling through cable channels she'd demanded they pay for but never watched.

He bent down, examining the severed cable end. She'd cut it with kitchen shears. Violence, however small, left marks.

Buster stood, stretched, and walked to the untouched corner, sniffing at something Richard couldn't see. The dog's tail gave a single, hopeful wag before he curled up in the exact spot where her chair had been.

Richard picked up his phone. Not to call her—he knew better by now—but to schedule the internet reconnection. Some things needed to be restored, even if the connection had changed.

Even if, he realized with a sharp pang, he wasn't sure he wanted her on the other end anymore.