Happy All the Time Read Free

a list that she then presented to him. It was, she said, a list of the things she liked about him. The list read: eyes, hands, shoulders, clothes, and height. Guido pressed for further information.
    â€œI hate soft hands,” said Holly. “Yours are nice and strong. Where did you get your calluses from?”
    â€œBuilding bookshelves and fishing,” said Guido. “Go on.”
    â€œWell, I admire your height and I like the way you carry yourself. I have always had a fondness for hazel eyes and whoever cuts your hair has struck the perfect balance between shagginess and propriety. I like dark-haired men. And I like the way you wear your clothes.”
    Guido was so unnerved by this recitation that he had to fight the impulse to run to a mirror to see if he were the man she was describing. Did he have hazel eyes? Was he tall? Did he have dark hair and was that hair midway between shagginess and propriety?
    Now as he turned the corner to her flat, newspapers under his arm, he wondered at what point Holly had decided in his favor. She had arranged to spend Saturday afternoon with him and it was perfectly clear in what manner it was to be spent. But what did that mean? She treated him exactly as she had before, except now they were lovers, and now he looked like any of the sleepy, overcoated husbands walking home with the Sunday papers. He was struck with envy at the sight of them. He imagined them going home to secure marriages, well-cherished spouses who would greet them with warm kisses and a plate of eggs, or who would still be sleeping—warm, cozy, and comfortable—their romantic battles far behind them. It did not occur to Guido that some of these men might be single or divorced, or in a state of romantic torture exactly like his own. That imagined security pained Guido, who was not walking toward a safe haven but to an encounter with a stranger in a stranger’s house.
    Every morning Holly woke at eight. This morning had been no exception. Guido appeared with the papers at eight-thirty, lured Holly back to bed, and felt himself temporarily the king of the universe. Three hours later they were finishing breakfast and reading the paper, but the news held little charm for Guido. What appeared to him as a great event in no way altered Holly’s routine. Every Sunday she read the paper in a certain order. This Sunday was no exception. She read the society pages first to see who was getting engaged or had gotten married. Then she read the obituaries to see who had died. She read the arts and leisure section with special attention to the garden page, although she had no garden. She read at least two articles in the magazine section, studied the recipe of the week with a frown of disapproval, and then breezed through the fashion pages to see if there was anything she approved of. While Guido was undergoing a fit of desire, she read a long article about morality and genetics and then concentrated with complete absorption on an essay outlining the pitfalls and benefits of teaching infants how to swim. It was clear that she did not want to be spoken to. She sat upright in her straight-backed chair, neat as a cupcake, wearing a linen night shirt. Watching her, Guido began to realize why most violent crimes take place in the home: he wanted to strangle her. He wanted to get his hands on her and make her his. Finally, she had read the paper. The dishes had been washed and Holly was about to begin the crossword puzzle when Guido grabbed her.
    â€œGoddamn it, Holly. Doesn’t any of this mean anything to you?”
    â€œAny of what?”
    â€œWe just spent our first night together and here you are doing the goddamned puzzle.”
    â€œI do the puzzle every Sunday,” said Holly. “And I was assuming that this was the first of many nights. Besides, I find all this too nerve-racking and so I like to put things into the most normal context. I don’t want one of those strung-out love