Happiness is a Warm Gun
Noah did not know how to be this happy. His skin was warm and smelled like summer and the sunscreen he had applied to Mara in places she most definitely could have reached. He was floating in the middle of his pool on one of those ridiculously bright, squeaky, smells like so many chemicals it should be illegal devices. He watched Mara explode up from the bottom of the pool getting just enough water on him to take the edge off the heat. This was his life. Alternating between the artificial blast of the air-conditioning and the stifling summer heat, Mara only a couple arms lengths away. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to pinch him, to wake up. He had confessed this to Mara as she lay next to him, one hand on his chest. She hadn’t laughed but he could tell she just didn’t quite understand. Happy may have been foreign to her, but in the same way that listening to your old favorite song is. A few beats in and the words started to flow out of her mouth, her body knew how to be this way even if her mind hadn’t caught up. Noah was used to biting sadness or burning anger or even crushing numbness but this was an unbearable lightness. His thoughts were buzzing and static and loud loud loud but not in the terrible ways he was used to. He didn’t dread waking up and he didn’t dread going to sleep. Even his dreams had been as peaceful as he could have hoped. When he woke up in the middle of the night it was more often than not because of Mara’s wandering hands or because he had fallen asleep on the lawn instead of his bed. When the nightmares came they were painfully normal, the things you might find in anyone’s head. Some dark part of Noah missed the claws that dug into his skin and his mind, he was used to those, he knew how to handle that. When Noah had nothing he could not be bothered to care. But when he had everything… well, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing it. The giddy happiness of summer melted into the contentment of fall, of pumpkin guts and leaves that crunched beneath feet and hands tucked into pockets of sweaters that weren’t yours. Mara wore scarves to ward off the impending chill and because Noah couldn’t keep his mouth to himself. Contentment turned to coziness. Noah found clever ways to stay warm and a dozen new recipes for hot chocolate. The coldness in his bones didn’t return even when the weather outside turned brutal. The bags under his eyes were fading and Mara remarked that she had never seen him smile so often, tracing the freckles that were disappearing after weeks inside. There was a perpetual pillow fort in one of the rooms and many days were spent watching movies neither of them paid much attention to. Spring was not supposed to be kind to Noah. Noah’s mother had loved the way the flowers peaked their heads out of the earth, the way the birds sang, “honey they’re singing to us” she would tell him, the way the world was light and glowing, shaking off the darkness of winter. Noah had loved those things too until his mother was snatched and suddenly he saw that so many of the budding flowers were crushed by careless sandals and the baby birds screamed to their mothers who had been laid to rest unceremoniously by the side of the road and that no matter how hard he tried to fight it the darkness couldn’t be pushed away for long. This was the first spring in what felt like forever where Noah could start to see the world the way his mother had. When the first rains came down Noah pulled Mara away from her sketchbook and twirled her around, drenching them both.