** Mother Superior **

“Are you happy?”
The question hangs in the room – slicing through like sunlight penetrating the crevices of a nicotine stained window pane. Turning air particles into fireflies.
Eighty percent of household dust Is comprised mostly of dead skin… she furrows her brows – follows the indecisive path of death, scratches the top of one bare foot with the other. Sucks in air. Exhales. Considers.
Happiness is a warm gun. Rubs away a nonexistent itch on her elbow. Chews the inside of her cheek.
Outside their dusky bedroom a whistle blows – the train making another round. She imagines the passengers – stoic faces frozen in time – just passing through­ – a constellation of dead skin making its way to another place and time.
“I said, are you ha-“
“I heard you…” she interrupts… “I’m thinking.”
 
She remembers the first time she touched him – standing out there on the curb. Hands in his pockets. A cigarette poised between his lips. Give me a reason. Eyes like multicolored mirrors hidden beneath his signature baseball cap. Feet planted.
What does this mean, she asked, shaky handsgrabbing his velvet wrist – turning it over to reveal the quarter sized symbol inked into his fleshy forearm.
He blushed. “Dragon… it means dragon…” Her fingertips lingered – burning a soap impression of touch.
Her skin. His skin. Their skin.
In that moment, she was happy.
 
He stirs. Kicks the pale yellow sheet off his legs. Raises up to his elbows – obliterating what used to be his chesty pillow. Her head jars against her shoulder.
“The fuck man. Wasn’t meant to be a hard question,” he spits – jaw tense, eyes squinted.
She sighs – flops against the mattress. Bang bang, shoot shoot.
“I said I was thinking.”
“Yeah – that’s the problem.”
“No – the problem IS it’s an impossible question.” She braces herself – pushes a strand of hair from her forehead. “People can’t BE happy. You either were… or you will be.” Searches his face for understanding – finds her own smoky reflection.
“Happiness is one of those in-the-moment things that can never be in-the-moment.”
“…”
She shudders – pushes herself up, legs tucked beneath her. Turns her attention back to the dancing debris – like embers shot out of a cannon – dead skin made alive.  Squeezes her eyes shut – considers.
“When you are… you’re so busy being happy there’s no time to realize that you are… or that you ever weren’t. And it happens so fast – it’s like your brain tries so desperately to hold on to this feeling it doesn’t even know it has, it starts thinking of ways to sustain it. And once you get to that point, once you get to thinking about the next thing – the next fix – figuring out how to get back to that stage of where you just were – it’s gone. You remember that you were happy without ever actually getting to be happy…”
Looks at him now. Waits.
And when I feel my finger on your trigger…
“Jesus Christ. It’s always fuckin semantics with you, isn’t it?”
He leans over – rips free his shirt from the melee of sheets and blankets. Fumbles around the floor, finds his faded jeans – pulls them on.
Shakes his head – spent. “Why can’t you ever just say you’re happy?”
She considers.
“I-“
“Forget it!,” he shrugs. Stares. “Just – never mind. I just won’t ask.” Storms out – leaving silence in his wake.
She pulls the sheet around her naked body, blinks back the burning in her eyes. Curses him and his brevity, her and her ambiguity. Presses her body hard against the wall.
Bang bang, shoot shoot.
Happiness is a warm gun.
Sighs. Watches fireflies as they die out – lay to rest within the splintered wood floor. Closes her eyes. Listens for the next train.