The Next Happy Act

By Foster Trecost

 

It wasn’t a rehearsal. This was real.

All I needed to smile was her smile. And laughter took nothing more than the sound of laughter. A language with only one translation. And we spoke it fluently. Quiet rooms became our studio. We’d run lines and pretend life was lighter than it really was.

It went like this for quite some time. Then the curtain came down.

She tried to hide behind it, but there were holes. Thin patches where truth bled through. She’d stitch them up, but new ones always appeared. It takes strength to pretend you’re strong. And she had run out. Sometimes, sadness lifts with the next happy act. But not hers. Nothing could bring her back.

I woke one morning and the bed felt empty. She was still there, but not all of her. Not the parts that mattered. She stepped offstage before the play was over, leaving behind a hollow shape that only looked like her. A prop without purpose. By the time I got home, that was gone, too.

And still, I wonder where she went.

Maybe back to the place we used to be. I like to think she’s there again, laughing at the sound of someone’s laughter. A place where sadness isn’t welcome. It’s not easy to find, but it exists.

I know. I’ve been there.

Grief doesn’t knock. It just lets itself in. Wears your clothes. Eats from your plate. And stays until it’s given a reason to leave. Time dragged on. I waited for the music to start. For a cue that never came. For a reason, any reason, to be happy.

And then I found one.

A smile that made me want to smile. Not out of obligation. Not from nostalgia. Just because I felt like it. And it had been a long time since I felt like it.
But I hesitated.

A distant ache surfaced in her eyes. She had known pain, I could tell. Before I let myself smile, I asked if she’d ever been sad.

“Of course,” she said, and lowered her gaze, as if contemplating the past. Then she looked at me. “But only until I find a reason not to be.”
And something felt familiar, like a memory remembering itself.

“Me, too,” I said.

And with this, the stage was set. The curtain rose and I allowed a smile.

And settled in for the next happy act.

 

Foster Trecost from US writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Literally Stories, Fabula Argentea, Across the Margin, and Roi Fainéant. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.