I'm Thinking of Ending Things(8)

I don’t know what this means—“let things happen naturally”—but I’ve heard it over and over. People say it to me a lot about relationships. Isn’t that what we’re doing? I’m letting myself consider these thoughts. It’s natural. I’m not going to prevent doubts from blooming. Wouldn’t that be more unnatural?

I ask myself what my reasons are for ending things and have trouble coming up with anything substantial. But how can you not ask this question in a relationship? What’s here to keep it going? To make it worthwhile? Mostly, I just think I’d be better off without Jake, that it makes more sense than going on. I’m not certain, though. How can I be certain? I’ve never broken up with a boyfriend before.

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.

“Even when it’s cold like this, if it’s clear,” Jake’s saying, “I don’t mind. You can always bundle up. There’s something about the deep cold that’s refreshing.”

“Summer’s better,” I say. “I hate being cold. We still have at least another month before spring. It’s going to be a long month.”

“I saw Venus without a telescope one summer.”

Such a Jake thing to say.

“It was one night around sunset. It wasn’t going to be visible from Earth again for more than a hundred years. It was this very rare planetary alignment that coordinated the sun and Venus, so you could see it as a tiny black dot when it passed between Earth and the sun. It was really cool.”

“If I’d known you then, you could have told me about it. I missed out.”

“That’s the thing; no one seemed to care,” he says. “It was so strange. A chance to see Venus, and most people were watching TV. No offense if that’s what you were doing.”

I know Venus is the second planet from the sun. I don’t know much about it beyond that. “Do you like Venus?” I ask.

“Sure.”

“Why? Why do you like it?”

“One day on Venus is like one hundred fifteen Earth days. Its atmosphere is made up of nitrogen and carbon dioxide and it has an iron core. It’s also full of volcanoes and solidified lava, sort of like Iceland. I should know its orbital velocity, but I’d be making it up.”

“That’s pretty good,” I say.

“But what I like most is that apart from the sun and moon, it’s the brightest object in the sky. Most people don’t know that.”

I like when he talks like this.

I want to hear more. “Were you always interested in space?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I guess so. In space, everything has its relative position. Space is an entity, right, but also limitless. It’s less dense the farther out you go, but you can always keep going. There’s no definitive border between the start and the end. We’ll never fully understand or know it. We can’t.”

“You don’t think?”

“Dark matter makes up the majority of all matter, and it’s still a mystery.”

“Dark matter?”

“It’s invisible. It’s all the extra mass we can’t see that makes the formation of galaxies and the rotational velocities of stars around galaxies mathematically possible.”

“I’m glad we don’t know everything.”

“You’re glad?”

“That we don’t know all the answers, that we can’t explain it all, like space. Maybe we’re not supposed to know all the answers. Questions are good. They’re better than answers. If you want to know more about life, how we work, how we progress, it’s questions that are important. That’s what pushes and stretches our intellect. I think questions make us feel less lonely and more connected. It’s not always about knowing. I appreciate not knowing. Not knowing is human. That’s how it should be, like space. It’s unsolvable, and it’s dark,” I say, “but not entirely.”

He laughs at this, and I feel silly for saying what I said.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not laughing at you, it’s just funny. I haven’t heard anyone say it like that before.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s dark, but not entirely. It’s true. And that’s kind of a nice idea.”





—Some of the rooms were vandalized, I heard.

—Yup, paint on the floor, red paint; 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 saw him doing it. He denied it, but volunteered to clean it off every time.

—That’s weird.

—That’s not even the weird part.

—What?

—The strange part was that he wrote the same thing every time. The graffiti. Just one sentence.