The Man’s rambling thoughts ceased to flow onto the pages. He chose to write exclusively with a Parker fountain pen on Clairefontaine paper, using Waterman black ink, and a wet paper towel to clean up any spills from a clumsy knockover of the bottle. He did not laugh or smile when writing, yet when finished, he let out a guffaw of pent-up frustration and set his precious writing utensil down. His still-hot black coffee waited next to him with steam wafting towards his nostrils; a car honked in the distance.

The pen’s cap had not been placed on the medium-sized nib (which was his preferred size due to its versatility and smoothness of writing), causing a pooling of ink on the paper. The Man stood up, leaving the mess to grow and his coffee to cool. He walks to the forest green door. It has brass knobs and a viewing hole that seems to be worn in from constant use.

After 10 years, the Man finally has silence in his constantly running, convoluted, and incredibly tired brain. Only one thought occupies that space now.

The door opens without him touching it; the Woman walks in. She seems to have a concerned look on her face, a mix of dismay and care. He stares through her, choosing not to register her presence. He does not want to be stopped in his path. The Man knows the Woman. She was the lady in his life – his other half. She could somewhat calm his endless parade of thoughts, but never bring him to the ease he had just reached. The Woman embraces him and implores him to stay, that she could help him, and she will never let go. He does not respond. For once in his life, the Man has a clear thought, one that is not swayed by thousands of other ideas.

He frees himself from her arms and continues to walk through the open door. She screams at him to return, but he does not listen. The Woman runs after him, but he tells her to stop before he hurts her. It is an empty threat. The man could never hurt her; she kept him sane for so long. She knows that he will not cause any physical harm to her, but she knows that her actions are futile. She has to let him go. She lets him leave, but assures him that she will always love him and wait for him to come home. The Man wipes a tear and continues down his path.

He takes a left past the corner store where he spent the last 15 years buying Lays Wavy Party Size chips and a gallon of milk. The cashier sees him through the window, smiles, and waves. The Man cannot bring himself to return the greeting. The Woman follows until he makes the turn, tears rolling off her face. She calls the police and implores them to follow him. They promise to find him and bring him back to her safely.

The Man sits in his rusty 2004 Honda Civic, turns the key, and drives towards his final destination. 30 minutes later, he has arrived. It is a secluded street with a bridge overhead. The bridge connects two sides of a short hill, with concrete walls covered in graffiti added for support, creating a wide tunnel that has enough room for 2 lanes of cars going in both directions.

His watch glows neon green in the dark; it reads 11:30 PM. The Man looks up at the stars, his mind totally calm and devoid of distraction. A single word rests in the tranquility of his mind.

He decides to add to the graffiti on the concrete support beams. With a can of orange spray paint he purchased at Home Depot 2 months ago, he writes the word that echoes in his consciousness.

The Man gets back in the car and drives into the tunnel, backing up to the eastern-facing wall so as to turn towards the west side where the sun had set. He takes a deep breath and accelerates straight into the concrete ahead.

***

The police find the ruins approximately 2 hours later. They tear apart the wreckage until they found the body of the Man. He is dead. Above him, in traffic cone orange, is a single word: Quiet.

– Namish Sapru