When Michael returned to their apartment it was late, and his breath was heavy with gin. It was the prime time for writing, but he knew he would have to deal with Suzanne before he could get to his computer. He opened the door and found Suzanne sitting in the corner amidst a pile of boxes. The only source of light was a lamp that lit the calm planes of her face. Michael switched the overhead light on, and saw the she had been crying.
“Who is Tracy?” She asked slowly.
“Were you reading my novel?” Michael shut the door.
“Who is Tracy?” She asked again, letting her anger slip into the words more this time.
“How did you figure out my password?”
“Oh please, I knew it would be the name of you college. You’ve never fucking gotten over graduating. You talk about that stupid College everyday. If I have to hear about those glory days one more time I’ll kill myself. But then again you would probably just write about it in one of your stupid stories, and you’ll make yourself look like the victim, so it’s really not worth it.
“Let me ask you, if college was the best time of your life why haven’t you talked to any of your college friends since you’ve graduated. If those were supposedly the best people you ever knew, why have you been so fucking busy to give them a single call, or write them a quick email in the last four years. Or maybe I’m just being blind, and you have been keeping in touch with them all this time. Or maybe you’ve just been keeping in touch with one of them. So I’m going to ask one more time. Who. The fuck. Is. Tracy?”
“Suzanne, it’s fiction. Tracy doesn’t exist. She never did. You’re getting worked up about nothing.”
“I’m not stupid. You wrote a memoir about you worthless life. A memoir about your great love, that does not include me at all. I knew I was wasting my time with a younger guy. I’m going to be thirty in two days, and I’m in a dead end relationship with a boy who’s still in love with his high school sweat-heart.”
“It’s not a memoir.”
“Then why is the main character named Michael?” She asked quickly.
“I couldn’t think of another name I liked. I was just using my own name as a stand in until I could think of a better one. You know I hate memoirs.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Come on. In the book, the main character is keeping Tracy’s cat for her, and you know I’m allergic to cats. And the main character never drinks, and your always complaining about how much I drink. Give me a little credit. I didn’t write a fucking Memoir.” Michael fell to her feet and started to cry.
“Do you swear that it’s all fiction, and Tracy’s not real?”
“I swear.”
“Well then…it’s a really good book.”
“Really?” Michael looked up at her like a well-trained puppy.
“Yeah. I loved the part about the pool. It was brilliant. And the ending was really appropriate for the story. I can’t believe none of it’s true. Was any part of the Tracy character based on me?”
“Wait, what ending?”
“You know, how he’s left wondering if Tracy’s ever going to come back. It’s like the perfect amount of ambiguity, but you still know what’s going to happen anyway.”
“What? What’s going to happen?”
“Oh come on.”
“No seriously, that’s not the ending. I wasn’t done with it. I was going to have another chapter, but I couldn’t decide whether she comes back or not.”
“Oh, I guess it really isn’t a memoir.”
“So how do you think it should end?”
“Well I think it’s already done. I have my theory about what happens. I mean I think it’s pretty obvious.”
“How? How is it obvious? How do you know what’s going to happen, and I don’t have a fucking clue?” he stood up and began pacing the room.
“Oh Michael, Michael, Michael. You’re so young. You’re not ready to write this kind of story.”
“Stop saying I’m young. I’m almost 26. I wanted to be famous by this time. I wanted college students to be writing essays about my masterpieces by this time. When I was young, I never thought about this age. I thought about 16, 18, and 21, and the years after 21 were supposed to be a blur of success.”
“Do you want to know what your problem is? You can’t handle things being unsaid. Do you remember that time when we were lying in bed and I wanted to do that silence experiment? All you needed to do was be silent for fifteen minutes, but you couldn’t handle it. You kept fidgeting, and laughing. You are so afraid of silence. You’re afraid of things being unsaid. You have to always fill up every void, and answer every question, but if you were quiet for just a few minutes, you’d realize that some things answer themselves without you.”
“Fuck you, I can handle the void. I don’t need an answer for everything. And I don’t need you telling me that I can’t handle my own story. I wrote that whole thing, and you’re telling me I can’t handle it.”
“No I just think you should wait a few years to realize the importance of that ending.”
“It’s not an ending.” He shouted.
“Michael calm down. It’s just a book.”
“No Suzanne, it’s not just a book. This is a novel that will define my career. This is two years of my life saved on a hard drive. I hate to sound like a cliché, but I’m putting it all on the line, baby. But you wouldn’t understand the torment of creativity cause all you do is sit in an office all day, answering the phone, flipping through magazines, and wonder which diet you should go on next.”
“I don’t have to take this from you,”
“Then don’t”
“I think you should leave.”
“Fine”
“I’ve already packed all your shit.”
“Burn it. All I need is the laptop.” Michael walked to his desk, and unplugged his computer. He wrapped the cord around it while Suzanne remained in her seat crying.
He walked to the door.
“So this is it? You’re just leaving me?” Suzanne asked, standing up abruptly.
“I guess so. I need to find my ending.” The sound of the door shutting was enhanced by the loud bang of Suzanne throwing his boxes across the room.