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The funny thing about happiness—it sometimes sneaks up, taps you on the shoulder, and then tiptoes away, leaving only shadowy footprints behind. And then you’re not sure if it was really ever there at all, or if those footprints were left by your crazed cat or perhaps a pervert who snuck in to watch you sleep who then got spooked and left without so much as sniffing your underwear.
In the week and two days since Luke Piewalker’s burned to the ground, I have seen him exactly zero times. I have received exactly six text messages lamenting his busy schedule, bemoaning the endless paperwork, teasing that we should get together for more rainstorm kissing and cooking lessons, confirmation that it was Tiana who melted the food truck to bolts and tears, inquiry about his favorite sweatshirt a
