I'm Thinking of Ending Things

by Iain Reid

Jake once said, “Sometimes a thought is closer to truth, to reality, than an action. You can say anything, you can do anything, but you can’t fake a thought.” You can’t fake a thought. And this is what I’m thinking.

“No coffee or snacks for me,” I say again. “I want to be hungry for supper.” “I don’t think it’ll be a typical spread tonight. Mom’s been tired.” “You don’t think she’ll mind, though, right? That I’m coming?” “No, she’ll be happy. She’s happy. My

Once I bring up these doubts, I can’t go back.

I’m sure it is beautiful, peaceful. But it’s hard to tell from the moving car. I’m trying to take in as much as I can.

through the glass, each bump in the road. A gentle

obscure enough to demonstrate a knowledge of the Soviet Communist Party. I don’t know why, but this is the stuff that drives

I thought about asking for his number or giving him mine. I desperately wanted to but just couldn’t. I didn’t want him to feel like he had to call. I wanted him to want to call, of course.

me.” Even if I stopped for only three seconds. “Kiss me,” again and again. Other than that, he was quiet. The lights were off, and I could barely hear him breathing. I couldn’t see him very

There’s only one question to resolve. I’m scared. I feel a little crazy. I’m not lucid. The assumptions are right. I can feel my fear growing. Now is the time for the answer. Just one question. One question to answer.

“I don’t know. It would depend on the secret. Is it significant? Is there more than one secret? How many are there? And what is being hidden? All relationships have secrets, though, don’t you think? Even in lifelong relationships, and fifty-year marriages, there are secrets.”

small spaces. This doesn’t happen so much at breakfast, more often after supper. I hate to dwell on these things. They’re unimportant and banal, but now’s the time to think about them before this relationship gets any

won’t say anything until I’m sure it’s over. I can’t. What I’m questioning involves both of us, affects both of us, yet I can only decide alone. What does that say about relationships? Another in the long line of early-relationship contradictions.

Most relationships I’ve been in were like a carton of milk reaching its expiration date. It gets to a certain point and just sours, not inducing sickness but enough to notice a change in flavor. Maybe instead of wondering about Jake, I should be questioning my ability to experience passion. This could all be my fault.

some water damage. Did you know he put a chain on the door? —Why did he do it in here? —To make some selfish, twisted point, maybe. I don’t know. —He wasn’t a vandal type, was he? —No, but the strange thing is he’d started writing graffiti on some of the walls. We all knew it was him. People

a black baseball cap, tipped back on his head, with the word Nucleus embroidered on the front in white cursive lettering. He seemed better suited to sitting than standing or walking. “He didn’t say anything, so I started into the routine I’d been practicing

dirty mini surfboards. His hands were those of an artist, a writer, not a driving instructor.” “If you need to take a break from the story to swallow or blink or breathe, go ahead,” says Jake. “You’re like Meryl Streep, fully committed to your role.” “I’ll breathe when I’m done,” I say. “He mentioned again that sixteen

This antiseptic Dairy Queen with fridges and freezers and fluorescent lighting and metal appliances and red spoons, straws wrapped in plastic, and cup dispensers and the quiet but constant buzz overhead.

I’d go moldy out here if I couldn’t leave, if there was nowhere else to go.

Maybe it will get better. Maybe that’s possible. Maybe that’s how it works with time and effort. But if you can’t tell the other person what you’re thinking, what does that mean?

windows and look in. A long hall. I can’t see all the way to the end. It’s dark. I knock on the glass. I want to yell but know it won’t do anything. Something moves at the far end of the hall. Is it Jake?

He’s just standing there. Motionless. It’s a broom or mop that he’s holding.

I lean in to look at the pictures. In one of the photos taped to the wall is a man and woman. A couple. Or maybe brother and sister; they look alike. The man is old. He’s tall, much taller

My room. I’ve spent so much time in that room, and it still exists. It’s still there, even when I’m not. It’s real. My room is real.

I always thought I would light that candle one day. I never did. The more time passed, the harder it became to light. Whenever I thought an occasion might be special enough to burn the candle, it felt like I was settling. So I would wait for a better occasion. It’s still there, unlit, on top of a bookcase. There was never an occasion special enough. How could that be?

Now I know what I think. It’s not that they weren’t happy but that they were stuck. Stuck together, stuck out there. There was an underlying resentfulness from each for the other. With me being there, it was best-behavior time. But they couldn’t fully hide the truth.

Hair isn’t alive. All those visible cells have already died. It’s dead, lifeless, when we touch and cut and style it. We see it, touch it, clean it, care for it, but it’s dead.

Now it’s my heart. I’m angry with it. The constant beating. We’re wired to be unaware of it, so why am I aware of it now? Why is the beating making me angry? Because I don’t have a choice. When you become aware of your heart, you want it to stop beating. You need a break from the constant rhythm, a rest. We all need a rest.

The steps are getting closer. People talk about the ability to endure. To endure anything and everything, to keep going, to be strong. But you can do that only if you’re not alone. That’s always the infrastructure life’s built on. A closeness with others. Alone it all becomes a struggle of mere endurance.

can never be the best kisser alone. Maybe that’s how we know when a relationship is real. When someone else previously unconnected to us knows us in a way never thought or believed possible.