Indisputable Happiness

How do you achieve indisputable happiness?
Maybe it's standing near the docks while it's windy.
Or maybe it's going on instantaneous road trips.

But I can't be sure.
Because I think I'm basing my definition of happiness on a box full of pictures of a very
happy couple.

But maybe that's it.
Maybe I need someone else.

Maybe I need someone to be the source of my unexplainable amount of happiness, so
much that I'll regret it when it ends.

That's not healthy.

But I've already tried standing at the docks during sundown.
And going on what I'd call, a sudden trip to another city.
And, trying my best to paddle board in the ocean.

Maybe what's missing is the person taking the photos.
Or people.

...

I turn around when I hear the click of a camera. I'm standing in front of an exhibit at the
Franklin Institute. The last time I’d been here was when I was a child.

He said he was taking pictures for their website.

That was faster than I thought.
And look what's being handed to me, a conversation starter.
Do I waste no time in asking him if he wants to hop on the Amtrak with me?
No.

He suggests something “better”.
An aquarium.

No thank you, I don't like those.

But while we're standing there, now awkward after the decline, I thought back to
the photos under my bed.
What seems sudden and full of happiness even if you don't like it or know what's going
to happen next.

I say yes.

...

We go right after he's done.

Instead of taking the ferry, he drives us.

Even though I said I didn't like the aquarium, I can admit, the jellyfish were my favorite.
They reminded me of a plastic bag.

We spent an hour there. Looking at only colorful creatures. He wanted to talk. To get to
know me. I said not yet. Let's enjoy the jellyfish.

After that, he took me to the Schuylkill banks.

Now you can get to know me. I told him about the photos and the couple and how they
made me feel like I should be a young mother in a band who never owned a home
before, all placed in the '80s -'70s.

He asked if this was just like an experiment. To find what they had.

I questioned between yes and no, trying to figure out which might make him feel bad.
Then I said, I guess.

He told me it was late.
Then he wrote his number on my arm and left.

...

This isn't love, this is fun. Enjoyment without love can also be happiness.

We were talking on the phone 2 days later. This was the first time I had called.
I was telling him about, what I'd call, an epiphany that happened last night.

He asked me if I was also looking for love.

Didn't you just hear me?

“It didn't make sense.”
Hmm.

...

We meet later that night, near a post lamp at a park.
There's a group of men playing soccer.

When he gets here I tell him again about the photos, and how they had to have someone
behind them who took the pictures, or. Just or.

“Why are you basing your definition of happiness on a group of people you've never
met?”

I don't have to meet them to see their expressions.
I tell him that I need him here to be able to know if this works or not.

“Isn't this a lot for someone who just met you?”

We met two days ago though.

...

That night we go to the beach. Two hours away.

He tells me not to trust people I've just met.
I don't really mind.

There are more people here than I thought there'd be, but that's just fine.
We rented a paddleboard and bought me a bathing suit.
I want photos.

I want something, a photo, to tell people that this experience made this person happy.

...

In a few minutes after getting into the cold water. I figure the best I can do is sit, and
paddle.

He's not too far away from me, zooming in and out with his camera. I probably
look depressed. Having a horrible experience by yourself is better than having it
with someone else.

It's not long till the waves push me back, and then I drag myself to shore.
I drop the board.
What a disappointing experience.

...

On the drive back, he asked if I wanted to see the pictures he took.

It's a definite no.

...

A week later I call again.
He'd been calling through the week actually; I just wouldn't pick up.

We meet at Washington Ave.
A place for what I'd call hipsters who probably smell bad and where Vietnamese shops
reside.

He asks me how I'd describe myself.

I cannot. I cannot answer that.

He tells me he'd describe me as vacant. But that's only what he knows now. He said.

I ask him what he means.
He says he doesn't think I'd like the answer.

Then he asks me to describe him.
I tell him he looks like a nerd.

“Oh.”

Let's try something else.

We go back to pick up his camera and then we head over to a subway station.

We pay our 2.50 and hop on the blue line.

...

This is not going as well as I thought it would. Because the sun is hot.
And UPenn is confusing.

I don't know how I've managed to not get what I was looking for twice.
Is the person not enough?
When we get back to the car, he drives me home.
He asks if I want to see the pictures.

No. No, I don't.

...

A day later, I finally pick up an incoming call.
He asks if we could go out. No camera this time.

He picks me up this time.
We go to a park.

With a wide trail, a lake, and a gazebo.
I never knew this was here.

It looks like it's gonna rain.
It does rain.

We stand under the gazebo and watch as multiple people run down the trail.

He asks if I wanna make a run for it.
I think I'd rather just wait.

So we sit and wait under the gazebo. And I fiddle with my shoe, and he messes with his
phone and this reminds me of a certain childish movie on a certain disappointing
streaming platform, but I don't say that out loud.

We get back to his car after having to run because the rain wouldn't stop. He tells me
there's no point in trying to be like other people.

Whether they're happy or not. It's never good to try and be a replica of someone else,
that isn't genuine.

I ask him to drive me home.

...

We haven't spoken for two weeks, but this morning he asked me to come to the institute.

When I get there, I have to wait outside because I'm not about to pay the entry fee just to
talk to someone.
When he finally gets here, he doesn't say hi, or anything; he just hands me a box.
A shoebox, to be specific.

I'm about to open it when he tells me not to.
It'll be better when you're alone.

I tell him I don't want to be alone.

“Then don't open it today.”
I take a minute to think.

Then I ask if he's almost done working.

...

We walk to a cafe across the streets of Logan Square.
We get a booth in the front, right near the window, and order sandwiches.

I ask why I'd need to be alone to open this box.

“It's so you can think,”

But I don't need to be alone to think, so I fold over the lid.

Pictures. Pictures. Many of them.
One is of me at the beach, lying flat on the board after being tired out.
My face is in direct view.

One where I'm sitting up, squinting, with other people behind me.
I kind of like that one, I'm not gonna lie.

Another of me on the subway caught the moment; the sun seeped through the
ceiling near Cecil B. Moore station.
I look so... still.

Another. Me at Penn, rubbing my eyes while standing in front of a map. The photo
he first took at the institute.

And lastly, one from the gazebo? It didn't register at first. But I guess he took it when he
was messing with his phone.

I look...
There's no way to explain it.

Epiphany?
I can use my own photos as examples of what I don't want to be.
Epiphany!
I look very good in the second beach picture.
Epiphany?
I'm allowed to go at my own speed; there's no rush.
Epiphany!
I really wish he was in these photos.

You feel really dumb when you realize you've been chasing after something that
would've never been yours.

After putting away the photos, I tell him: maybe I should take a break. From all the
photos and failing mimicry.

He tells me, and this is the end of this so please listen; he tells me,
I think that's pretty cool.

The Dawn