Every morning, on the subway, Lydia reminds herself that she is happy. She has an apartment with heat and a window and plumbing, and a boyfriend who takes her to dinner. She’s healthy, not fat, and has a pretty face and a job that pays most of her bills. Construction workers still say rude things to her, and the nice Indian guy at the corner deli always throws in a free bag of Ruffles no matter what else she buys.
She is happy, damn it. Very happy. Finger-snapping, head-bopping, puddle-skipping happy. Sing-aloud happy.
For 20 minutes she almost convinces herself.