The Dead Battery

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Fiction

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Moral rights

S.E. Saunders asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Authors Note:

While the assertion above states the stories found in this book are fictional, I will include notes where the stories aren't fiction. The following is based on events from my life.

The Dead Battery

In my daily existence, I encounter seemingly ordinary occurrences that spark a new level of understanding. Today, a lifeless battery in my work phone became the canvas upon which my mind painted intricate parallels with my relationship.

At 4%, I plugged in the phone, expecting the familiar hum of charging to begin. To my surprise, it remained dormant, defying its usual obedient response. This minor inconvenience, a recurring issue over the past few days, led me to believe the fault lay with the charge cord. A subtle wiggle, an attempt to troubleshoot, only deepened the worry the phone was completely done for. The attempt to trouble shoot involved connecting the cord to another phone, the electricity flowed seamlessly, proving it wasn't the cord at all.

In this simple technological conundrum, I found a reflection of the intricate dance within relationships. Often, the signals we receive from our loved ones fall short of meeting the manufacturer's expectations. Or worse the harsh words said become an unseen obstruction. In the scheme of things sometimes they’re a minuscule obstacle hindering the full and meaningful connection we crave.

My husband, who is more technologically savvy than I am, went into fixer mode. I’d already experienced the problem and took steps to assess the cord versus the phone. He wasn’t willing to listen to the troubleshooting I had already done. Once he confirmed what I already knew, he devised another fix. “I’ll have to clean it,” he says. “Maybe some isopropyl on a Q-tip will fix it.”

I nod, thinking it a promising idea, but my mind in lost in thoughts of how the phone’s lack of power was representative of an earlier tiff. He’d been harsh, after I started answering before he finished speaking. We were both in the wrong. He didn’t need to be snappy because the phone wasn’t turning on at the press of his fingerprint, and I should have let him finish speaking. That was the debris in the receptacle that was causing the lack of connection.

He eventually apologized, and I didn’t lambaste him because I recognized my part in the interaction.

In the end it wasn’t a “We need a new phone moment.” We needed to keep troubleshooting the issues, and clear the debris away through apologies. In typing this, I realize I didn’t own my part. I’ll need to do that and try to remember not to interrupt and what triggered the immediate insertion of my words and the exasperated, “I don’t know.”

I started the conversation expecting him to spiral into complaint mode, and I just wanted him to shut up so he didn’t drown us in what I perceived as a blanket of negativity.

Sad, but true. I didn’t want to hear the x, y, z. I just wanted him not to whine about it. Like I do. Yet, he’s not me and if truth be told, he’s the better fixer and has every right to feel the way he does. If he wants to mention something, complain about something, rage about it, then he has that right.

My response to such things is usually less pronounced. It’s an inconvenience but not one I need to show up to. I don’t have the energy or the headspace for it.

In the end, life’s ordinary moments, like the stubborn battery unfolded from something mundane into something of deeper significance and taught me something of my husband and myself.