HappinessLaura Van Prooyen
Then there was a sign of happiness: The postman blew me a kiss while I raked the leaves. You’ve seen this before. Once I wore an impossible dress to a party and drank so much I woke with a mysterious bruise. You should have known that was what I called happiness. Not the bruise, but the not knowing. Anything can happen. I like it like that. You show me the target and insist I put my finger through each hole. You are right to think this will impress me. That it might get the response you’re after. But remember I am the girl who, long before you, hopped on the back of some guy’s bike never thinking he could drive me to the cornfield and leave me there when he was through. It doesn’t really matter that I ended up with only a tailpipe burn. The point is I can’t quite say no. And neither can you. And who wants to anyway? Especially when you’re not really sure what you might lose. Is that why you moved the gun to the bedroom?
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