The Ending They Needed

To date, I have received a few comments to the effect that some of my writing is incomplete and that I should, to borrow a phrase, finish the damn story!

My view has been that a story is done when it is done. See, for example, Richard Brautigan's "The Scarlatti Tilt." (Google it.) Only thirty-four words comprising two sentences, but it is complete. Sure, you could add to it, but you don't have to.

I recognize now, however, the selfishness of my view because a writer's work, through creative osmosis, becomes one with the reader. (Note the sexual imagery. I work on multiple levels.) Recall the collective disappointment with how "Game of Thrones" ended, kind of like disappointing sex, when the viewers still wanted more, more, more. (I'm doing it again. See?) One could argue that "Game of Thrones" had to end when it did because they were running out of people to kill, but that does not render invalid the dissatisfaction of the viewing public.

Thus, to save us all a lot of time, I offer the following for anyone who thinks whatever I write or wrote is too short. Just stick this at the end of the too-short story and see if it doesn't help.

You're welcome.

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It had been at least two years since he last saw her. Then, they had not spoken. The rage was too recent. The recriminations too fresh. The betrayals too raw. Then, she had merely glared at him with eyes shooting the flames of Hell. He had said nothing but had smiled slightly, relishing the moment. Then, they had gone in the separate directions their destinies demanded.

Now, there she was, walking through the park. She had not yet seen him. Even from a distance, it was obvious that she was a wrecked, hollowed-out shell of a human being, but still hot, like the day he first met her at the university, or in high school, or in the old neighborhood, or at a friend's party, or in an RV he had to drive cross-country back to the dealer. Of course, that was back when he was just starting out as a simple metal banger, or carpenter, or car salesman, or guy who builds quality homes, or Ford Mustang aficionado, or IT specialist who focused on security and had access to all kinds of cool surveillance gear, or the owner of his own business who had managed to hide the ownership of that company in a bunch of Cayman Island shell corporations that nobody knew about, or when he was just completing training as a Special Forces sniper, who could barely keep his smoldering rage under control, but learned to do so for the one woman who was worth it.

Back then, she had just been a secretary or real estate agent. That should have been his clue. Nearly every secretary he ever read about was getting boned on trips out of town by her boss, and every female real estate agent seemed to be fucking a brash salesman in the unwitting husband's marital bed when she was really supposed to be showing houses. But he was young and foolish then. He did not know the signs. Like that NO ONE who is an executive takes a secretary on a business trip. Ever. And for the female real estate agent, her commissions should have been way higher than they were for all the time she was supposed to be selling houses, especially with the real estate market so hot those past years. But wisdom comes too late to be of any use, as they saying goes.

She had seen him and walked over with a sad smile.

"You look good," she said.

He did. He had lost 30 pounds of fat and replaced it with 20 pounds of muscle. It was the time he was spending in the gym these days, surrounded by leotard-wearing floozies. His firm quads and glutes made women ovulate at a glance. And you could now bounce quarters off his ripped pecs and abs. The girls in his post-divorce, bi-curious harem certainly did. That is, if they could ever stop the cunnilingus long enough to do so, but he did not mind since that got them and him ready for another round of orgasms like he had never experienced before, certainly not while he was married to the slut. Oh, and his penis had gotten larger since the divorce. That had been a nice surprise. His lawyer never told him to expect that.

"You look like a wrecked, guilt-ridden shell of a bitch who ruined the one good thing she had in life, all for a shadow-existence of mindless deceit, motivated by a base desire for meaningless sex outside the sacred bonds of matrimony with your ex-boyfriend who you never really got over, my best friend, my cousin, my father, your boss, some guy in the next town I never heard of, and/or some guy you met at the gym," he told her. "And/or some girl or girls," he added.

"I know," she said. "I am guilt-ridden. It's my role."

"I know," he said.

They paused.

"You never gave me a chance to explain," she said.

That was true.

"Why bother?" he asked in honest curiosity.

"I have to," she replied. "I feel like I am trapped in a Pirandello play where I am compelled to say a lot of words to illuminate motivations that even I do not understand but that merely reveal my inability to accept my own selfishness."

"The unwritten rules of the forum seem to require it," she added as she looked into his eyes in a desperate desire for understanding.

"I suppose that's true," he admitted.

They stood looking at each other, wondering what could have been, had he not loved her so much that he did not detect her deceptions, and had she not been, like, a complete and total lying slut splooge-bag who was trying to get knocked up behind his back with a baker's dozen's worth of lovers.

He checked his watch.

"Look," he said, "I don't have a lot of time. I have to get back to my sizzling-hot, bisexual harem."

"I know," she said, "And I have to get back to my life of loneliness and despair, where my only excitement is watching the toxic mold growing on the walls of my slum-like apartment."

"Right," he said, "Here goes: you never wanted to hurt me; it was only sex; I was never supposed to find out; I wasn't losing anything by your affairs, so it didn't matter; you wanted one last fling before we had kids; you needed one last fling now that the kids have finally moved out of the house; you just needed some excitement as you got older; you just could not get enough of his huge cock, even though you really loved me; he had compromising photos and videos that you just could not bear me seeing because you knew you would lose me if I did, so you really fucked him for us; and/or he's your soulmate, but you liked the stability I offered. And if I just gave you a second chance, you would try like hell for the rest of your life to win back my love. Oh, and you're most sorry that I found out and got hurt, but you're a little vague on whether you are sorry at all that you slutted around in the first place."

He paused.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked.

She thought for a moment.

"You got most of it. You missed the bit where we were in the vicious cycle of you busting your ass working to build a life for us and to give me everything I wanted or needed, which meant you were out of the house a lot and not giving me the attention that I wanted, which drove me to it, even though I really should have had some self-control in the first place. You also missed the part about how your only mistake was that you insisted on loving me instead of roughly fucking me like I really wanted and needed because, beneath it all, I really am a slut who loves nothing better than to be done doggy-style in the ass, which I never shared with you, while I tell my lovers how much bigger and better they are than you, even though I don't mean it. Or at least tell you that I don't mean it."

"Right. Sorry."

They both smiled a bit.

"You know," she began, "at first, I really did hate you after you discovered me having an orgy in our marital bed with seven of my lovers, all of whom you then just shot down in cold blood as you leapt into the room and rotated in mid-air in slow motion as you soared over the bed like a panther, spent 9 mm shells raining on the oak parquet floor like tears wept for our wasted lives—just like in a John Woo movie—and then skillfully disposed of their lifeless bodies while I lay catatonic with bits of their brains spattered all over me. After losing their bodies in a way that the police could never connect you to their disappearances, you then came back to me, still catatonic, to gather me up in your strong arms, dump me in the trunk of the car, and pull me out to see that you were selling my colluding sisters and mother to a Mexican whorehouse while you then sold me to Somali pirates, who performed female genital mutilation on me with a rusty razor and no anesthetic, including a full clitoridectomy and labial excision, which really is quite nasty and painful, after which you cleaned out our bank and retirement accounts, using a power-of-attorney I had long forgotten about. Or forgery."

She frowned in concentration.

"Or was it before you found us that you cleaned out our accounts?"

"Before," he said, "but I laundered the money afterwards so that your lawyer could not find anything."

"Right. Anyway, I'm over all that now. I've totally forgiven you."

"That's good," he said. "Internalizing rage leads to heart disease. They've done studies."

"I know," she said.

The silently looked at each other again.

She frowned.

"I think you have a line to say," she reminded.

"What?"

"About trust."

He looked at her blankly.

"You know," she prodded, "about how 'without trust there is nothing?' That one?"

"Oh, right," he agreed, embarrassed. "Thanks. Well, it's true. Without trust there is nothing."

She thought for a moment.

"What if you could trust me to cheat on you again? You know you could. Would that count?"

"I don't think that's what it means."

"Right," she said with a sigh as her shoulders slumped.

After another moment, she looked at him hopefully.

"Is there any chance that you could forgive me?"

He allowed himself to be shocked. It was required.

"You mean, just forget everything? Get back together, just like that? Get remarried so that you could make another go for my money, which has grown exponentially since the divorce, while you were cheating on me again? You want me to act like I could ever trust you again when I am really wondering whether I am drinking the diseased spunk of dozens of other men out of your messy, wet twat when I am going down on you? Is that what you mean? Are you really that delusional?"

"Yes. That's what I mean. And, yes, I guess I am that delusional. We're having this conversation after all, aren't we?"

Could he, he wondered. He had loved her once, after all. He had loved her helplessly, hopelessly, deeply. His bi-curious harem gave him amazing sex but no real emotional satisfaction. And lots of readers seemed to consider this kind of scenario a serious possibility and wanted it discussed. Could he? Fuck, no! Not unless he wanted to castrate himself and eat his own raw and bloody testicles and then carve a vagina into himself.

"No."

"I know," she said. "Still, I thought I would ask."

She thought for a moment.

"Do you ever think we could at least be friends?"

He considered this.

"Would you be willing to let me urinate on you in public to show my disdain for you? And give me the names of all your surviving former lovers so that I could hunt down the ones I was unable to locate and savagely beat nearly to death the last time so that I can finish the job now?"

She smiled coquettishly.

"If that's what it takes to rebuild the relationship," she said, gazing up at him with longing.

"Maybe we could have coffee," he said with a shrug. "Of course, I'd have to throw it in your face while it's boiling hot as I scream my still-burning fury at you."

"It's a date," she said with a broad smile that showed her rotting teeth.

With that, they parted again and walked into their over-explained futures.