I realized halfway down that the structure from which I had jumped wasn’t tall enough.

I was going to survive. So I stopped falling–somewhere around the fifth floor–and decided not to kill myself, or rather, to kill myself a different day.

I went home and climbed into bed with my girlfriend. In her sleep she never realized I was gone. I started stroking her arm which, thanks to a devoted interest in luxurious skin products, was unnaturally soft. I’d totally skin her alive and stitch myself a blanket. 

She stirred. “Where were you?”

“In the living room. I was reading.”
“When are you going to start writing your novel?” Her eyes were closed. I hated when she asked me that. It was embarrassing. Everyone is writing a “novel.”

“Just as soon as I have something interesting to write about.”

“Why don’t you write about how you like to sneak away at night and throw yourself from tall places but always change your mind before hitting the ground?”

“Maybe,” I sighed. “But that’s just so depressing.”

“Or, how you want to skin your girlfriend alive?”

Silence filled the bedroom.

Her eyes were open now: “You talk in your sleep, K.”