Marriages can be stormy. Simple things get blown all out of proportion.

At times, we tend to be blind to the obvious. As tensions mount, highly emotional conflicts can lead to . . .

The Parting Of The Ways

     It was a drizzly Friday night in the middle of April. Jake and Melinda sat at the kitchen table after dinner in utter silence. Then Jake let out one of the loudest farts ever heard.

     “Oh, my, what’d you do, Jake?” Melinda asked.

     “Huh, do what?”

     “You don’t know?”

     “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Melinda.”

     “My God! You’ve got to be kidding.”

     “Kidding? About what?”

     “What you just did. You live trapped in your own little world. You can’t see past the end of your nose. There’s a large universe all around you, Jake. And I’m part of it. Don’t you know that?”

     “Yeah, I know that. But what’s your problem?”

     “You. You’re my problem.”

     “What’d I do now to upset you, Melinda?”

     “The least you could’ve done was say, ‘Excuse me.’”

     “For what?”

     “Don’t you know what you did, Jake?

     “Sure, I had a biological explosion. So what? We all have gas from time to time. It’s a normal thing the human body goes through. I can’t believe it upset you so much.”

     “It annoys me because you’re so inconsiderate. You don’t care about my feelings, do you?”

     “You’re getting all bent out of shape over a lousy fart? What’s the big deal?”

     “If it was just the gas, I’d let it drop. But it’s everything, Jake.”

     “Now what’re you talking about? We’ve been married twenty-two years. Some problems are going to arise. It happens in all marriages.”

     “Yes, you’re right. But it’s happening much too much in ours. And you’re not even aware of it.”

     “So, it’s not just the gas?”

     “Jake, you’re unbelievable. The gas is the least of our concerns. There are hundreds of others I could list.”

     “Okay, start listing. I dare you to do it. But remember, I get my turn, too.”

     “Your turn? What do you think this is, some sort of competition?”

     “Well, that’s what you’re making it. Isn’t it, Melinda?”

     Melinda didn’t respond. Silence fell upon the room. They just sat there staring off into space, when the phone rang.

     “Aren’t you going to get that, Jake?”

     “Why can’t you? It’s usually one of your hussy friends.”

     “My what?”

     “You heard me.”

     The phone kept ringing. Both Melinda and Jake remained frozen in their seats. Neither one reached for it. Then it stopped.

     “Well, Jake, are you happy now?”

     “About what?”

     “Somebody called us and you just let it ring. It might’ve been important.”

     “I just let it ring? You could’ve answered it. The phone is as close to you as it is to me. Besides, if it were that important, they would’ve left a message. Right, Melinda?”

     “How should I know? If you’d answered it, we wouldn’t have to sit here guessing.”

     “There you go again. I’m always the one who’s wrong. I fart too much. I don’t answer the phone when it rings. I . . . I . . . I cause all the problems.”

     “So what am I supposed to say? You’re right. Yes, you’re right.”

     “I’m what? You’re off your rocker, Melinda. I’m out of here.”

     “Yup, that’s what you always do—run away. You don’t confront the issues. Don’t try to solve the problems. Just disappear into your fantasy world.”

     “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. And I’m sleeping in the guest room tonight.”

     “You do that. Maybe I’ll get some peace for once.”

     Their paths didn’t cross the rest of the evening. Yet the anger over what appeared to be an irreparable situation boiled within them.

     With the guest room shutters not completely closed, the early morning sun lit up the room waking Jake. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs. He looked around and wondered why he’d slept in the guest room. He seemed to have buried last evening’s confrontation with Melinda deep within the recesses of his mind. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Eight o’clock jumped out at him. Saturday morning, don’t have to go to work today, he thought.

     He dragged his lethargic body out of bed, put on his bathrobe, and plodded down the hall toward the kitchen, where he heard noises. “Ah,” he muttered, “Melinda must be getting breakfast ready.” His stomach growling, he thought to himself, I’m starving. He pictured the table set with rolls and bread in a basket, bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling on the stove, and a pot of coffee brewing in a way that made his mouth water.

     He ambled into the kitchen. Melinda sat at the table tapping a spoon and sipping a cup of coffee left over from yesterday, while reading the newspaper. The table was vacant—no food in sight. The stovetop resembled an empty parking lot—no pots or pans in evidence. He looked at Melinda and grunted, “When’s breakfast?”

     She pointed to the refrigerator without looking up at him and groaned, “That’s where the food is. Take what you want.”

     “You mean you’re not going to make it?”

     Melinda didn’t respond. She kept her head buried in the paper.

     “Why the hell are you avoiding me, Melinda? What’d I do?”

     “Nothing. And therein lies the problem. You never do anything around here. So, now I’m on strike.”

     “On strike? What in God’s name does that mean?”

     “New house rules. If you want something, get it yourself. If you need something done, do it yourself. Maybe then your teensy weensy mind will grasp the importance of my role in your life.”

     “You’re impossible, Melinda. You’re behaving like an imperial dictator. I don’t know how I ever loved you.”

     “You don’t know how you ever loved me. That’s a laugh. I must’ve had my eyes closed when I consented to marry you. You’re an ignorant jerk, who cares only about yourself.”

     “I’ve had it, Melinda. This isn’t going anywhere. Each time we try to speak to one another, you drive another nail further into our coffin of “dead love.” When that last nail is banged in, we’ll dig a hole in the backyard and bury it.”

     Melinda grit her teeth. She wanted to avoid saying anything more she might regret, if there was anything left. Jake paced in front of her, trying to avoid making eye contact. Two creatures lost in a battle that couldn’t be won. Was it time for the parting of the Ways?

     For three days Melinda and Jake stayed as far away from one another as two people, living under the same roof, could. And then, early Wednesday morning their paths crossed in the hallway. Melinda looked Jake in the eye and . . .

     “I’ve had it with you Mr. Ways. You’ve ruined my life.”

     Then she reached under her bathrobe and pulled out a Beretta Nano and pointed it at Jake and fired twice, hitting him in the chest and left arm. As he collapsed, he pulled a Glock 22 from the right pocket of his robe and, with his last dying breath, fired one shot, which hit Melinda directly in the heart. She screamed and fell to the floor with a thud.

    

And now, the question I need your help in answering. I am considering three possible endings to the story. Please review them below and let me know, at slolowe@icloud.com, which one of the three would provide the best ending. Thank you in advance for your help.

Ending I

     Then, from the end of the corridor, a tall, balding man yelled, “cut.” He trudged down the hallway, as Jake and Melinda stood up and straightened their costumes. “That was good, folks. But we’ll do one more take of the last scene of The Parting of the Ways before calling it a wrap.”

Ending II

     And so, the final nail entered the coffin, ensuring the “parting of the Ways” from a world neither of them knew how to handle. But in the hereafter, would they again reunite? A frightening possibility, one ponders.

Ending III

     She lay sprawled on the ground for a few minutes, until she was sure Jake wasn’t moving. Then she got up and checked his pulse. Removing her cell phone from her robe pocket, she punched in a phone number. “Vivian, he’s gone—dead as a doornail. That bulletproof vest you lent me worked like a charm. The Ways have now parted.”

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.