Mister happy: chapter 1

By white sand.

Warren stood in the dark facing the front door of his house. Seeming not to notice the rain as it ruined his coat, he stood motionless and merely listened. From within the house came the commotion of a soap opera on the television, apparently at full blast. He inhaled deeply, and placed his hand on the doorknob.

He stepped inside; cringed at the blaring television. No one was in the room watching. He lifted the remote, then reconsidered; set it back down.

“Hello?” His voice was defeated, unable to compete with the television.

Sandra emerged from the darkness of the hall, the glow of her cigarette wavering towards him like a red eye. The light from the television made sparks in her eyes, and barely illuminated the smooth skin of her face. The cigarette hung nonchalantly from her lower lip as she spoke.

“Yeah, baby. I’m here,” came her raspy voice; she indulged in a fit of wet, phlegmy coughing. It was she who pressed a button on the TV to lower the volume.

Emotionally unable to embrace her or even spare a complement, Warren simply nodded.

“Where’s Rex?”

In response she blew smoke towards his face. “Why don’t you ask me how I’m doin? You could care about me a little, like you used to. Bringin me presents and shit, takin me out to dinner and shit. Callin me throughout the day, make sure I’m not slittin my wrists and all that fun stuff.” She spat, making a brown splash on his sleeve.

Warren looked from his sleeve to Sandra, his face twisted in a panic. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, and he said, “Sandra… I’m sorry. I’m trying, it’s just… I’m sorry.”

Sandra sauntered closer to him, the fineness of her body apparent even when she wore T-shirt and shorts. She reached out to stroke Warren’s face with her dazzling acrylic nails; he flinched and turned away.

“Come on, baby,” she said. “You can’t deny your own wife. Or maybe I should take Rex and go find some man who can get it up!”

“No!” he cried. Looking past Sandra, he saw a little boy’s shaggy head peeking out of the bedroom. In a smooth gesture he indicated to the boy to get back in the bedroom; the shaggy haired boy obeyed.

“No, Sandra, there’s no need for that. I love you.” Then he lifted her as gently as though she were a princess and carried her to the couch. “I love you, Sandra. I’ll make love to you.”