A Good Happy Girl

Not feeling pressure to smile is a universal relief.

Any family could have lived in that room, filling the shelves with bought or borrowed books that eventually overflowed to the short glass coffee table. Porcelain ballerinas and clowns, cartoonish and threatening in their amplified emotions, must have been gifts from doting great-aunts. Three living succulents—I touched them, to check for falsity and perpetual longevity—were equally spaced in front of a thick copy of Elizabeth Bishop’s collected works. My family could not have lived in that room; I could not have lived in that room.

she possessed the sort of vocal fry that made men change radio stations and comforted women like myself.

Katrina’s excitement sped with our attention. Think about it, she directed, and I confess, I did. We’re all working, right? Busy, trying to get whatever task it is done. And there’s personal pressure, and then there’s capitalism, of course, and money, and hours. And if we didn’t work that day, well, we might lose the job entirely, or get a bad review, and lose it down the road. Okay, we know that. But imagine if we— here she looked at Catherine, though I of course knew that I was not yet part of a we—, had both worked today, or even, late yesterday, and we decided well, we’re a bit tired, and after all you— here they both looked at me, as I was of course the separate you— had canceled once before, even though we’d both arranged our work around that meeting, so, imagine if we had said, maybe even sensibly, well, I need to work, and so, that’s that.

A silent communication transpired between the wives then, some sentiment expressed only through eye contact, and I recognized them as a couple with their own language. I understood then that Catherine and Katrina were equals at their core, unlike so many couples I had met before, who gave an air of constant dominance and submission. When the wives turned to face me, they did so in unison. I wanted to rupture the unity and to join it.

I did not know how to offer comfort to a person so like myself.

Understand even then I wanted to be equal parts desired and far-flung.

She put her hand to her chest and said, In here, girl. Identical. You, me, and him.

I wondered if there was a working fireplace, if I could convince Catherine to hang me up and start a flame, nurse it, then yell about smoke usher Katrina outside in only her underwear. The comfort I imagined at them coming back inside, the house being fine and me having been stuck inside all along, was the bliss I never experienced in my lived life but welcomed all the same.