David LaBounty
The kitchen is clean, perfect, new, and nothing is out of place. The appliances are all black and chrome and the countertops are granite. The cabinets and floor are a cherry wood and Bev and Frank sit at the kitchen table in symmetrical silence as they stare past the deck and beyond their emerald lawn that backs up against a gathering of trees and beyond the trees are the backs of houses similar to theirs; houses with many gables, houses with a lot of glass, houses with a lot of brick.
They sit in a silence that is underscored by the stirring of coffee and the kitchen radio that softly plays one of those morning chit-chat shows with hosts that laugh incessantly at yesterday's gossip and news and the laugher causes Bev to wince because she and Frank watched the same gossip and news on TV last night but they weren't moved to laughter; they weren't moved to anything except to the bedroom where they climbed under the sheets without talking or touching.
Happiness, she says, this isn't happiness.
What do you mean? And this he asks without looking into her eyes and it's been a while since he's looked into her eyes because the wrinkles around her eyes mirror his own wrinkles and the visible mortality is more than he can bear; he is trying to fight the aging process and the fight is vigorous - he has taken to exercising constantly and forsaking salt.
Are you happy?
Well, yeah, sure, I mean… why wouldn't I be. She sips her coffee and wraps both her hands around the delicate porcelain coffee cup as if it will keep her from freezing even though they are in the heart of the humid Illinois summer. She shrugs her shoulders and asks if he remembers laugher and lightness.
He looks at her with confusion in his eyes and then he looks at his watch and he laments the passing of time as he wants to get five miles in before he heads to work and he tugs at his stomach, pinches the roll of fat around his waist that just won't go away.
Do you remember how we didn't worry about anything? Do you remember how we always used to talk and laugh? Do you remember how we used to make love and yeah, I'll say it, how we used to fuck?
He remembers the latter, he remembers the constant orgy of their youth but he doesn't remember the rest. It's as if they've always been how they are.
I'm happy, he says thoughtfully and quickly and he wants to hurry the conversation and he stands up and starts to stretch in preparation for his morning run. We've gotten older, that's all, life changes, our minds and our bodies change and I've got to get going he says as he looks at his watch and he curses silently because now he only has time for four miles and that short of a run will ruin his training schedule and it will make him feel like the entire week is wasted.
If you were happy, Bev says, you wouldn't waste so much time running and pulling at your stomach, who are you trying to look so good for? God knows it isn't me, is there someone else?
No, there isn't, Frank says quickly and he sits back down. Maybe there will be time for three miles and no more, he has to drive downtown for a ten a.m. meeting and a drive into the city is at least an hour and a half with only moderate traffic.
I don't believe you, Bev says. We don't act like married people, she says, we act like roommates. We act like co-workers or business partners and this, this isn't a marriage. This is an existence.
Well, really, there isn't anyone else, there hasn't been anyone else and he is telling the truth and she can sense that, she can hear the resignation in his voice.
What about you? He asks as if this were a counter move in a chronic game of chess. How do I know you aren't cheating? How do I know what you're doing when I'm at work? I mean, I don't think you're up to anything but you're not exactly glad to see me when I come home from work and I never see you smile now that you mention it, now that we're talking about happiness.
She nods slowly and takes a timid sip of coffee. No, I guess you don't know what I do, and this she says while she thinks about what she actually does. There is yoga four times a week at a studio in their picture-book suburban downtown that keeps her body limber but limber for what? There is the house, four thousand square feet that takes constant dusting and polishing and there are the flowers that always need to watered and weeded and this is her life.
He looks at his watch. There will be no running today, maybe tonight if he's not too tired or stiff from being stuck in traffic for too long and the missed run already makes him feel fat and flaccid, as if he's instantly gone from being in shape to grossly obese.
Maybe, he says as he heads back upstairs to change out of his running clothes and into his suit, maybe happiness is something finite, maybe you can only have so much and it runs out, you know, we had our fill of happiness, we feasted on it and that's all there was and now we have to fast. I don't know he says as he pauses on the landing and looks at the three foot tall empty vase with pictures of flowers and dragons etched in gold that she bought antiquing so many years ago. Maybe we had happiness and we took it for granted, you know, maybe we had it in a cup or a jar and we let it spill all over the floor.
He walks upstairs and he won't talk to her again until he comes home early in the evening with his teeth freshly ground. She sips more coffee and looks for happiness on the floor and she sees nothing but she grabs the broom and a mop and a bucket and starts to sweep and mop just in case.
