What We Carry Alone

Maurice had been installing cable for twenty-seven years, and in that time he'd learned that people's homes told you more about them than their faces ever did. The spinster with seven cats who kept her TV stuck on the Food Network 24/7. The couple who'd stopped speaking somewhere around season three of Mad Men. The ones who ordered porn then claimed the signal was "too grainy" when he knocked.

Today was different. Today he was back at his own apartment, standing in what used to be his living room.

The divorce had been final for three weeks. Elena had taken everything except the furniture and Bear—their ancient, arthritic Labrador who now stared at him from his bed in the corner, the same way Bear had stared at him the night she walked out.

"You always were better at bearing things than I was," she'd said at the door, suitcase in hand. "That's not a compliment."

He'd found the frozen spinach brick in the freezer yesterday, freezer-burned and lonely—part of her brief health kick from two years ago. The one where they'd both tried to become people they weren't. She'd lasted three weeks on salads and green smoothies before sneaking fast food in her car. He'd lasted longer, mostly out of spite.

Now, at forty-three, he was swimming in the wake of other people's expectations.

The apartment complex's pool was empty at 2 AM. Maurice stripped down to his boxers and slipped into the water, the shock of it hitting his chest like forgiveness. He'd been on the swim team in college, back when he believed that if he just moved forward fast enough, he'd eventually arrive somewhere worth being.

Elena had loved watching him swim. She'd sit on the deck with Bear, reading novels she never finished, while he did lap after lap until his muscles burned and the world simplified down to rhythm and breath.

"You're beautiful when you're in the water," she'd say, and for the first time in his life, he'd believed someone might find him beautiful.

Now he sliced through the silent pool, thinking about copper wire threaded through walls, carrying invisible voices and faces to strangers. All that connection, and nobody saying anything true.

He surfaced, gasping, and saw her standing at the pool's edge—not Elena, but someone else's ex-wife, someone else's ghost. His own reflection in the patio glass.

Bear was waiting at the apartment door when he returned, tail thumping once, hopefully. Maurice knelt in the damp carpet and buried his face in the dog's familiar smell—chlorine and old age and unconditional presence.

"We'll be okay," he whispered, and discovered he meant it.

The cable bill was due tomorrow. For the first time in twenty-seven years, he'd be paying it for himself.