“It’s silly. I had to laugh. I skipped most of it. I didn’t even read three tablets of it.”

I shook my fist in front of her nose.

“And how would you like me to smash your face into a bloody, drooling pulp?”

“It’s smart-alecky. All those big words!”

I tore the tablets from her.

“You Catholic ignoramus! You filthy Comstock! You disgusting, nauseating, clod-hopping celibate!”

My spittle sprinkled her face and hair. Her handkerchief moved across her neck and she pushed me out of the way. She smiled.

“Why didn’t your hero kill himself on the first page instead of the last? It would have made a lot better story.”

The Road to Los Angeles, John Fante

Well, what about it then?

What’s the best one-line story of suicide you can write? (About 70 characters.)

It was broad daylight when he killed himself.

Sniff. Click. Hah—just like that.

Wrong button? The hell. I pressed them both.

The turbines screeched into stillness, choked on her body.