The End of the Novel

If he’d told anyone, he might have said it was like standing over a simmering pot for years, waiting for a magic fish. He grew tired of stirring. The novel was never supposed to be a secret, but once he’d abandoned it—stew, pot and fish—who could he tell? Burying it was mawkish. A single, merciless delete impossible. So he printed a copy and dropped it, whole, in the recycling bin, a chaotic flapping of wings. To fill the remaining afternoon, he dredged the koi pond and lined the bottom with freshly chipped stone. He drank cold water from a thermos, and wiped his lips on his sleeve. The bin occupied a wedge of darkness between the shed and a forsythia bush. Most of the year it was covered by the forsythia’s wild, unnecessary branches, which he was forever pruning and stacking. After the pond was done, he cut more branches, and more. Once, he lifted the bin lid and saw, in a puddle of rainwater, his chapters coming to an end. So that’s that, he said. He closed the lid and took a walk in the light rain. The clouds were thin, yet seemed capable of organizing themselves into a real storm of dramatic and damaging winds. It was as fit an ending as any.