I notice a vein twitching in her forehead. She’s trying to figure me out, and getting more and more pissed as she repeatedly fails. “Enough of the twenty fucking questions,” she snaps. “Your turn. What about you? Are you happy?”
“Reasonably happy, sure,” I say. “But mostly because I’ve cracked the secret code to happiness.”
“Oh?” she asks, looking intrigued. “Do tell.”
“Eat something and I will.”
“I’ll pass.”
I sigh. “Knowing the secret formula to happiness isn’t worth eating a delicious meal?”
“No.”
“Alright then,” I concede. “I’ll share anyway, free of charge. The secret to being happy is… drumroll please… clean bedsheets.”
“Fuck you,” she snorts.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Clean bedsheets. You come home at the end of the day, you shower, you get into those nice, fresh sheets… Pure bliss. Nirvana at your fingertips.”
“Are you done?”
“Baby, I’m just getting started.”
Her eyes narrow. “I was expecting something more along the lines of ‘drinking the blood of your enemies, fucking their wives, enslaving their children.’”
I fake a shudder. “God, hell no. Fuck that. Have you seen the wives of my enemies? They’re repulsive.”
Renata can’t help but laugh at that. She kills it an instant later, but for a second, it was there. A sliver of joy. Or something close to joy, at least.
“You want to know the real secret to happiness, though?” I ask in a somber voice after a moment of silence has passed.
“Here comes another joke.”
I shake my head. “No. This time, I meant it. The key to happiness is knowing that it’s not a constant state of being. It’s not the kind of thing that’s permanent. Even if you achieve happiness, it won’t last. It comes and goes. You need to enjoy it while it lasts and hold onto the hope it will return when it leaves. If you accept that, then you’ll be happier because of it.”
She absorbs that for a moment. I can tell she’s mildly impressed by the personal philosophy, but she’s trying not to show it. “So you’ve accepted that you’ll never be happy for long? Sounds bleak.”
“It’s not as pessimistic as that,” I correct. “More like I understand that happiness can’t be trapped in a bottle. No one is insanely, wholly happy all of their lives. Not unless you get a traumatic brain injury or something.”
“Have you ever met anyone close?” she asks quietly.
I think on that. “My brothers, perhaps,” I suggest. “But then again, I’m assuming that from an outside perspective. Maybe it looks different from their point of view.”
“What do they have that you think makes them happy?”
“They’ve got life partners and kids,” I explain. “They’ve got goals to meet. Jobs they love.”
“And what about you?” she asks curiously.
“I’ve got goals, too,” I admit. “And sometimes I do love my job. But mostly because I’ve had no choice but to love it. It’s the only thing I’ll ever be qualified for.”
“Murdering?”
I tilt my head to the side and look at her curiously. “Do you really think that’s all I am? A murderer?”