A photo of the happiest woman in the world hangs in the hall near the front entrance. She looks happier than I�ve ever imagined being, a glorious smile on her face as her husband kisses her cheek. They both look overcome by happiness, he pressing his face to hers in what must have been a sudden overflow of delight. Joy.
Sometimes I envy that woman. To love and be loved with such radiance�I can�t quite imagine or understand it. And then I think, yes, but he�s fucking me. Can they be that happy?
I never thought there could be a rottenness in the center of joy. I always thought that if there were, then it couldn�t be joy in the first place. Or love. Then again, a rotten spot in an apple doesn�t make it any less an apple.
This is a mystery to me. But it�s hard to think of mysteries when he has his hand between my legs and his fingers inside me.
Mystery is a young woman who wanders into the room and stands in front of me as I grind my ass into his groin. Mystery is startled but not shocked. I know, I know, we had a date, I tell her. Look, will you take a raincheck? I promise, we�ll talk later. You can read me a story. Mystery snickers, checks her watch, and walks briskly away. Bitch.
�God, you�re so sexually intense. Your whole body moves with my fingers,� he mutters. I say his name. He doesn�t reply, only keeps working his hand against my body, as the happiest woman in the world smiles blindly at our backs. His failure to say my name in reply is the rot at the center of my joy. Or would be, if this were joy.
�Jesus. Let�s go upstairs,� he says, pulling his hand out of my unzipped pants. He follows me up the stairs. I turn once to look at him and what I see in his face makes me feel shamed. I can�t place the look, but it makes me feel vaguely nauseous. Why am I here? And Mystery stands in the corner and laughs.