I don’t know how the argument started, just that it started in the middle of my favorite show and went on way, way too long. One minute we were cuddled up on the sofa, bodies softly conforming to each other, breathing and hearts synchronized; then somehow it was three hours later, and we were at opposite ends, balled up in individual protective shells.
Maybe it was because I cried when the wife wound up back in the kitchen after her “kooky scheme” to be a jazz musician failed. Maybe it was because I laughed too hard when the husband’s prized Chevy was crushed by a falling piano.
Whatever it was turned our romantic comedy into a soap opera. There were dramatic monologues, significant pauses, impassioned pleas, artful tears—all reaching a shrill crescendo, then fade to black.
I waited until the end of the anthem before I looked up with breath drawn for another try. But all I saw was the test pattern reflected in his eyes. Perfectly blank grey and black circles.
That’s when I knew it was time to leave. That’s when I knew that nothing worth staying for would be broadcast on his channel ever again.
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
