Hinterland — Crewneck Sweatshirt

You stop reading with six pages left. Not because the book has become difficult. Because it is about to stop offering alternatives.

For the last few evenings there has been a road you could go down, a person you have not yet fully understood, and a door whose practical significance has become wildly out of proportion to the amount of time it has appeared. You have enjoyed having these things nearby. Six pages feels like a rather abrupt amount of future to give them.

You put the book down and go out to meet a friend. They ask if you've finished it. You say nearly. They have read it already, which creates a short but very concentrated negotiation about what nearly permits them to say. They settle for asking whether you liked it. You are wearing the ink-and-bronze crewneck, feeling quite content with your answer and considerably less certain that you want the rest of theirs.

Walking home, you invent three endings. One is ridiculous. One is probably too kind. The third would require a character who has not appeared since the beginning to have been paying considerably more attention than anyone gave them credit for.

At home you finish the book. None of your endings occurs. You sit for a moment with the cover closed, then send your friend a message about the ridiculous one. They reply that they would have read that as well.

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