The End of the Road by John Barth

tight-lipped, and rubbed her stomach nervously. “That’s right,” she said.
    But a most curious thing happened shortly afterwards. We took the horses back to the stable and drove home, neither of us saying an unnecessary word. It was as though a great many things were held suspended in delicate equilibrium—the rapid crowding on of dusk upon an entirely empty summer sky, with its attendant noiseless rush as of the very planet plunging, doubtless helped—and one felt hushed, for a word might knock the cosmos out of kilter. It was dark when we parked in front of the Morgans’ apartment and I escorted Rennie across the deep lawn.
    “Joe’s home,” I said, observing a light behind the closed blinds of the living room. I heard Rennie, beside me, sniff, and realized that she’d been crying some more.
    “We’d better wait a minute before you go in, don’t you think?”
    Rennie made no answer, but she stopped and we stood quietly just outside the door. I had no desire to touch her. I bounced idly on my heels, singing to myself Pepsi-Cola hits the spot. I noticed that although the Venetian blind was closed, it was not lowered completely: a bar of light streamed across the grass from an inch-high slit along the window sill.
    “Want to eavesdrop?” I whispered impulsively to Rennie. “Come on, it’s great! See the animals in their natural habitat.”
    Rennie looked shocked. “What for?”
    “You mean you never spy on people when they’re alone? It’s wonderful! Come on, be a sneak! It’s the most unfair thing you can do to a person.”
    “You disgust me, Jake!” Rennie hissed. “He’s just reading! You don’t know Joe at all, do you?”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Real people aren’t any different when they’re alone. No masks. What you see of them is authentic.”
    “Horseshit. Nobody’s authentic. Let’s look.”
    “No.”
    “I am.” I tiptoed over to the window, stooped down, and peered into the living room. Immediately I beckoned to Rennie.
    “What is it?” she whispered.
    “Come here!” A sneak should snicker: I snickered.
    Quite reluctantly she came over to the window and peeped in beside me.
    It is indeed the grossest of injustices to observe a person who believes himself to be alone. Joe Morgan, back from his Boy Scout meeting, had evidently intended to do some reading, for there were books lying open on the writing table and on the floor beside the bookcase. But Joe wasn’t reading. He was standing in the exact center of the bare room, fully dressed, smartly executing military commands. About face! Right dress! ’Ten-shun. Parade rest! He saluted briskly, his cheeks blown out and his tongue extended, and then proceeded to cavort about the room-spinning, pirouetting, bowing, leaping, kicking. I watched entranced by his performance, for I cannot say that in my strangest moments (and a bachelor has strange ones) I have surpassed him. Rennie trembled from head to foot.
    Ah! Passing a little mirror on the wall, Joe caught his own eye. What? What? Ahoy there! He stepped close, curtsied to himself, and thrust his face to within two inches of the glass. Mr. Morgan, is it? Howdy do, Mr. Morgan. Blah bloo blah. Oo-o-o-o blubble thlwurp. He mugged antic faces at himself, sklurching up his eye corners, zbloogling his mouth about, glubbling his cheeks. Mither Morgle. Nyoing nyang nyumpie. Vglibble vglobble vglup. Vgliggy bloo! Thlucky thlucky, thir.
    He snapped out of it, jabbed his spectacles back on his nose. Had he heard some sound? No. He went to the writing table and apparently resumed his reading, his back turned to us. The show, then, was over. Ah, but one moment—yes. He turned slightly, and we could see: his tongue gripped purposefully between his lips at the side of his mouth, Joe was masturbating and picking his nose at the same time. I believe he also hummed a sprightly tune in rhythm with his work.
    Rennie was destroyed. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the