The HAPPINESS Axiom (non-fiction)
"Can I bum a smoke?" I asked.
She handed me a cigarette.
"Thanks, April." When I got to the back door it was beginning to snow. It wasn't the blizzard or the flurries, it was the slow, fat snow. The kind at night that you can either watch the trails of it or focus on one noteworthy descent. It was beautiful. Like April.
She is a muse to me, but will never be a partner, an ex, or a wife. A friend only because I love her too much. I often sit speechless in front of her, thinking this and how disturbed she would be if I told her. How uncomfortably she would start to notice my eyes fighting to stay above her breasts. What distorted reply she would give when I told her she looked gorgeous today. Instead of terrifying her, or sitting in akward silence, I accepted her cigarette and slipped out back to breath. She is beautiful, but I love her beyond beauty, and tonite it made me want to get as far away from Connecticut as I could.
But where would I rather watch the snow fall than April's back porch? The most obvious place would be the beach, but this would require a strict discipline in snowy highway travel. In contemplate I also realize this plays deep in the Happiness Axiom. Fantasy (watching snow at the beach), is the ruin of true Happiness. Happiness isn't like in the movies, it is a movie. I tell you it's the best movie on earth, and when you see it, it will not meet your expectations. The movie will suck. Joy is not Happiness. Happiness is not joy. When I finally get to the beach, I will know how dark the shores of New London are at night, and how difficult it is to abbreviate a lifetime to a snowflake whose dancing you cannot see. This is also true of love. Maybe I would rather watch it from the street?
I stood at the end of April's driveway and scrutinized each hallway of snow. No, I love watching it from the flood lamp above the back porch, each white speck punctuated against a black backdrop of trees. When I turned back toward the house, my footprints had been erased. Other than that, the metaphor is wrong. Unlike most love I've deviated, it is still a short walk back.