End of Story

by A.J. Finn

Ink sinks into stationery, indelible as a scar; email is breath on glass, an instant dissolve.

“Life is hard. After all, it kills you.”

“Young Hunter,” he says, “there is one pursuit, and one alone, that engages a man who has lost his wife and son in a single night, and that is resisting the almighty urge to blow his brains out.”

“People your age—young people, I mean—you treat your lives like galleries, for public display, open to all. My life is no gallery. It’s a vault, a black box, and—I’m sorry I can’t put this more elegantly—it’s nobody’s damn business.”

“As Simon St. John tells us, the past is a poison. Tolerable only in trace amounts.” “I remember. But the past is gone.” “Oh, no.” Now he turns to her, and his smile is so sad she could cry. “The past isn’t gone. It’s just waiting.”

“‘A woman who doesn’t lie,’” she replies, “‘is a woman without imagination and without sympathy.’”

“Gossips everywhere. There is an expression: moral indignation is envy with a halo.”

“I don’t think I can imagine wanting to die,” she says, slowly. “But I guess I can imagine not wanting to live.”

I’m no longer certain how our story ends.” “Your story.” “Our story. A person isn’t a slipknot—you can’t just tug a string and untangle him. His story is inextricably bound up with the stories of others.”

“We’re all in that story. Life is a thriller. The ending is fatal and the conclusion is final.”

“I suppose that if I’m grieving, then I must have loved whatever I lost, however I lost it. I suppose—it’s like a scar reminding me of some adventure I had. Or like the end credits of a wonderful film. So . . . no, I’m not comfortable with it, but I’m grateful for it.”