When the Cable Went Dark

The storm knocked out the cable at 11:47 PM. Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the living room in stroboscopic bursts. Inside, Sarah and Marcus sat on opposite ends of the couch, their faces bathed in the pale glow of smartphone screens.

"Great," Marcus said, not looking up. "Now we have to talk to each other."

The irony stung. They'd been friends for seven years before dating, lovers for three, and married for eighteen months. Somewhere along the way, they'd forgotten how to be anything except two people sharing a bed and WiFi password.

Their golden retriever, Buster, stirred at Marcus's feet. The old dog had been Sarah's engagement present—a symbol of commitment, or maybe distraction. Now he was just another living thing they both loved separately.

Sarah set down her phone. The screen showed her sister's Facebook post about another perfect weekend in Napa. "We could pretend this is a blackout," she said. "Like old times."

"Old times when?" Marcus finally looked at her. His eyes were tired, the color of the orange juice he drank every morning despite never actually liking oranges.

"Before we became roommates who have sex sometimes."

The words hung between them, heavy and terrible. A particularly vicious lightning strike shook the windows. Buster whined.

"I still love you," Marcus said, which was both true and not enough.

"I know. That's the problem."

They sat in silence as the storm raged. Without cable, without social media, without their carefully curated distractions, they were forced to confront the vast quiet space between them. Sarah remembered their first apartment, the one with terrible reception where they'd spent entire weekends just talking. Now they had premium everything and nothing to say.

"Remember when the cable guy came to install the internet and he hit on you?" Marcus asked suddenly.

Sarah laughed. It was the first genuine sound between them in weeks. "And you got so jealous you memorized his schedule so we'd never accidentally get him again?"

"I was protecting my investment."

"Your investment." She shook her head, but she was smiling. "God, we were ridiculous."

"We were happy."

The admission cracked something open. The dog stretched and settled between them, his warm weight a bridge across the divide.

"Maybe," Sarah said, "we should cancel the cable permanently."

"And do what?"

"Figure out if we're still friends."

Outside, the lightning moved toward the horizon. Inside, in the darkness, their hands found each other across the dog's sleeping back.