I know a guy who’s going to kill another guy when he’s ready to die.

I used to fuck him. He used to fuck me. I used to love him. I used to think
the way I felt about him was love. That’s what he told me. I believed him
because no one told me differently.

Without alternatives, we accept things.

This plan sums him up perfectly:

One night, after he came on my stomach, he said: When the pain of living
becomes worse than the pain of dying, I’m going to off myself. Well, not by
myself, with Steven. We’re going to off each other. We’re going to go into
the woods and point guns at each other’s temples.

You’re not even going to kill yourself?

He rolled to the other side of the bed.

I did not move because the fluid on my skin was hardening. I did not want
to wash my sheets again.

That is so like you. You can’t even keep an abstract promise that’s
unlikely to necessitate actual follow-through. What happens if you mess up?

He propped a pillow against the bedframe.

Why do you assume I’ll mess up?

I kept my eyes on the ceiling.

I’m not assuming, I’m just saying this plan has faults. Like: what happens
if the timing is off and you don’t kill Steven or Steven doesn’t kill you
and then you’re just standing there, in the middle of the woods and you’ve
just killed him; then you’re a murder. You would have to live in that
moment and then you would have to live in another moment where you also
decide to kill yourself. Then, you are a suicidal murder. Who would want
that?

I turned my head.

He covered his face with his hands.

You don’t understand.

You’ve lived your whole life never even stealing a candy bar, not even as a
kid, you told me you didn’t even skip school. Now your plan is to end your
life by killing someone, someone who you don’t even know that well?

My plan is to leave this world the same way I came into it. Steven and I
share that value. We’re going to leave no remains; our bodies will be used
by nature, we’ll be totally and completely absorbed into the Earth.

So you’ll be naked? You’re going to kill another guy buck-naked? Let me
tell you what’s going to happen: You’re going to get an erection, that
happens sometimes when men try to kill themselves, then you’re going to get
self-conscious about getting an erection and then you’re going to die a
homophobe. Why would you do that? What’s the point? I know you: You’re
going to be standing there thinking of all the ways you need to tell
Steven: Look, I’m not interested in you, but there’s nothing wrong with
being interested in you, I’m just not. And then you’ll be dead.

You don’t get it. We’re not going to die naked. We’ll be clothed. Then
after, bears will come and use our clothes for shelter.

You think bears are going to carefully disrobe your dead body? Maybe
they’ll use your limbs to decorate their dens. And what about the guns? Do
those disintegrate too?

Why do you do this? Why do you just assume I’m going to fuck everything up?

Your plan is to die a murder and then to leave two guns and two bodies in
the woods. Do you know who goes into the woods? Besides serial killers who
probably have their own guns, or their own plans to snap little girl’s
necks after they rape them: Children go into the woods. You’re going to
leave two guns for some kid to pick up when he goes fishing with his
father.

I stretched my arm across the mattress. The man did not move.

I knew he was no longer listening. I also knew he was stubborn enough to go
through with this plan simply because I had questioned it. This was what
made us so great: Consistency. There were no surprises. He could fall in
love with anything; I could pull and pull and pull at a thread until I
undid even the strongest certainty.

After he fell asleep, all I could think about was the woods. I kept seeing
them. I kept seeing him and Steven dead. I kept thinking about the kid that
would find them.

I was sure that kid would be fishing with his father for the first time. I
was also sure it would be for the last time. Not even because of the
bodies. Because the father would think he was being an actual father by
bringing his son out to the lake, only to discover that what he actually
loved about fishing was being alone. What he loved was thinking about the
woman who served him coffee with the thick hot pink lipstick whose
fingernails were long and always painted. Then the father would think about
lifting the woman onto a counter, think about her green apron, think about
loosening the strings, about those tall boots that cinched at her thighs,
which he could only see when she went into the kitchen to check on the
status of someone else’s fries.

That is why the father loved fishing, but he would have trouble thinking
about that woman when his son was asking so many questions, questions about
how the father learned to fish and whether or not he was doing it wrong.
The father would think: It is not that complicated. You stand there, you
put the rod in the water and you wait for a bite and usually you don’t get
a bite, you just get time to think about things that are difficult, things
you can’t think about when you’re home, things you are too ashamed to admit
you want.

There is an entire sport for staring at water and using the time to face
emotions that scare the shit out of people, all the while keeping in mind,
the goal of killing an animal. During that time, people are reminded that
they are human, that they will die some day and that so will all of the
people they love. Maybe they are also reminded that life isn’t what they
thought it was. Or, if they are like that man and Steven, they will spend
the time preplanning their murder-suicide. They will think about their
values. They will not think about their people. They will think: There are
things more important than people.

In my bed, the man was still sleeping.

Then a thought occurred to me: There is another kind of kid who goes into
the woods. That kind of kid is the kind who will have just worked up the
courage to ask out the girl from down the street. He will want to try to
hold her hand so he can feel what it feels like to hold someone’s hand, to
feel connected to someone, to touch a girl without needing to touch her
breasts; to touch her in a small way that is intimate. That kid will
probably also want to touch the girl’s breasts, but, given the chance, he
might surprise himself with how whole he can feel just by wrapping his
sweaty fingers around hers.

But, what happens if the girl doesn’t show up? Maybe the girl doesn’t show
up because her dad is doing things dads aren’t supposed to do to their
daughters. Then that boy will be alone in the woods, he will be alone and
he will be waiting and he will be scared and he might not be ready to think
about the things people think about when they go in there. And then he will
find the gun. He will find not just one gun, but two guns, and two dead
men.

The boy will be standing there, wreaking in a combination of smells,
starting with his father’s after-shave, because the boy wouldn’t have been
able to find cologne, but also, because he would’ve had to do the dishes,
the boy will smell like soap, he will smell like citrus. Then, being
horribly embarrassed that the girl from down the street will think he is
wearing women’s perfume, the boy will have also gone under the sink and
rubbed Clorox on his chin. This will not be a good idea, but the boy will
not have anyone to stop him.

While he waits, the boy will miss the girl and will feel stupid and will
feel alone and then maybe he will start to think about her, about her
breasts, and then the boy, finding himself alone in the woods, might start
to jerk off. But when he is just about to come, maybe he will realize that
the pile in the leaves that he thought was damp wood, is actually a rotting
human; two rotting humans, and then he will see the guns. In that moment,
in spite of himself, the boy will still come. Then he will think: I could
never love anyone.

Next to me, the man snored while I wondered how he was able to see only as
far as he wanted. Why to him, killing meant more than loving. Why, for
instance, the man couldn’t give himself to me. What had stopped him? I knew
that he was in love with me. Or that he thought he was in love with me. Or
that he felt about me, the way he felt about most new things: excited and
naïve. I would have taken him. Because I believed I loved him. Because I do
not believe in fantasies. I would have killed him if only he had asked me.

I hope that he and Steven practice synchronicity. Dying is easy. Staying in
rhythm with someone who is not you isn’t.