The Hum of Disconnect

Arthur clicked the remote, the television screen going black with a soft sigh. It was ten-oh-seven. Every night, ten-oh-seven. Eleanor would be in the bedroom, reading. Or pretending to. He stood there, the dead screen reflecting his own tired face, a blank slate under the dim living room lamp. A small hum from the refrigerator was the loudest thing in the house. It was a good hum, steady, predictable. He liked predictable.

He walked to the kitchen, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Three steps, turn, three steps to the sink. Pick up the mug. Rinse. Place in dishwasher. Wipe counter. Wipe again. The motions were automatic, programmed. He didn't think about them. He didn't think about much, not anymore, not really. It was safer. Less… static.

Ellie had left her book on the counter again. A paperback with a pastel cover, some woman staring wistfully at the ocean. He picked it up, ran his thumb over the dog-eared page. Chapter seven. Always chapter seven. She never finished anything these days. He knew the feeling. He set it back down, carefully aligning it with the edge of the counter, just so.

Bedroom light spilled from under the door. A thin strip of yellow warmth against the dark hall. He paused, hand on the doorknob. His breath hitched, just a bit. He could hear the rustle of pages, or maybe it was just the blood in his ears. He opened the door, stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and old paper. Familiar. Too familiar.

Eleanor was propped against the headboard, spectacles perched on her nose, the reading lamp a halo around her silvering hair. Her book was open, but her eyes were closed. She wasn't reading. She was somewhere else. He stood for a moment, watching the slight rise and fall of her chest, a silent observer in their shared space.

He cleared his throat. A small, dry sound. Her eyes fluttered open. “Oh. Art.” Not Arthur, not his name like it used to be. Just Art. A short, clipped sound. She pushed her glasses up her nose, a habit he knew better than his own reflection. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, even though he wasn’t. He was exactly on time, ten-fifteen, as always. He walked to his side of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He could feel the residual heat from where she’d been sitting for hours. A faint warmth, like a dying ember. He pulled back the covers, slid in. The sheets were cool against his skin. A small mercy.

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The old water stain, shaped like a misshapen continent, was still there. He’d meant to paint it, years ago. Never got around to it. Never got around to a lot of things. Beside him, Eleanor sighed, a soft, weary sound. The book thudded onto the nightstand. The reading lamp clicked off, plunging the room into near total darkness.

“Goodnight, Art,” she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. It sounded like an automatic message, pre-recorded, played out of habit. Like the hum of the fridge. Or his own programmed movements in the kitchen. He wanted to reach out, touch her arm, anything. Say something that wasn't part of the nightly script. But the words stuck in his throat, a jagged lump.

He closed his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids wasn't empty. It was filled with static. Not the chaotic kind, but a gentle, ordered hum, a thousand tiny electric pulses. He imagined himself in a server farm, rows and rows of blinking lights, perfectly aligned, perfectly silent except for the whisper of cooling fans. Each circuit, each data packet, moving with exquisite precision. No messy emotions, no unspoken questions, no fading love. Just predictable, logical input and output.

He imagined these server racks as his electric sheep. They weren't soft and woolly, weren't alive. They were cold, hard, logical. And he longed for them, for the clean, predictable hum of their existence. Sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, he swore he could almost feel the cool, vibrationless floor under his bare feet, the antiseptic air in his lungs. He could almost slip into that quiet, ordered dream, away from the tangled, frayed wires of his own life, away from the quiet, suffocating silence of the bed beside him. A gentle, persistent hum was all he craved, a simple, uncomplicated current running through his circuits.

He turned onto his side, facing away from her. The continent on the ceiling dissolved into the black. Just the hum. Always the hum.