Happy People Read and Drink Coffee by Agnès Martin-Lugand Page A

solving the smallest problem without someone’s help; my parents were right. I felt like slapping myself.

4
    I’d forgotten what it felt like to listen to music that was so loud my eardrums nearly burst. I’d hesitated a long time before turning on the hi-fi, remembering there was a time when I did it without thinking. I kept glancing at it, hesitating, pacing up and down all around it.
    The incident of the fuse box had shaken up my routine. I forced myself to go out more often. I went for little walks on the beach. I tried not to drag myself around in my pajamas all day long. I did everything to get back to the world of the living and stop wallowing in paranoid delusions. One morning, I surprised myself when I felt less despondent when I woke up; I’d felt like hearing music and I’d listened to some. Of course I cried; my euphoria hadn’t lasted.
    The next day, I put the music on again. Then I couldn’t help but move along to it in time. I was getting back in touch with old habits. I danced like a madwoman all alone in my living room. The only difference in Mulranny was that I didn’t need earphones; I danced to my heart’s content, the bass pounding.
    â€œ The dog days are over, the dog days are done. Can you hear the horses? ’Cause here they come .” I shared the stage with Florence and the Machine. I knew this song by heart; I never missed a beat. I twisted and turned. A fine layer of sweat covered my skin, I flung my ponytail all over the place and my cheeks were bright red, of course. Suddenly, one sound seemed out of place. I turned down the volume but still heard the same racket. I walked over to the door with the remote still in my hand. The door was shaking. I counted to three before opening it.
    â€œHello, Edward. What can I do for you?” I asked with my sweetest smile.
    â€œTurn down your damned music!”
    â€œDon’t you like English rock? They’re your compatriots . . .”
    He banged on the doorframe.
    â€œI’m not English.”
    â€œThat’s obvious. You don’t have their famous stiff upper lip.”
    I continued smiling brightly. He clenched and unclenched his fists, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
    â€œYou’re asking for it from me,” he said in his hoarse voice.
    â€œNot at all. You’re actually the opposite of what I’d ask for.”
    â€œBe careful.”
    â€œOoh, I’m scared.”
    He pointed a finger at me and clenched his teeth.
    â€œI’m just asking you to turn it down. It’s making my darkroom vibrate and it’s disturbing me.”
    I burst out laughing.
    â€œSo you’re really a photographer?”
    â€œWhat business is that of yours?”
    â€œNone at all. But you must be really bad at it.”
    If I were a man, he would have hit me.
    â€œPhotography is an art,” I continued, “which requires a minimum of sensitivity. But you have absolutely none. So my conclusion is that you weren’t made for that profession. Well, listen, it’s been awfully nice talking to you . . . No, I’m kidding, so excuse me, I have better things to do.”
    I gave him a look of defiance, pointed the remote at the hi-fi, and turned it up as loud as it would go. “ Happiness hit her like a bullet in the head. Struck from a great height by someone who should know better than that. The dog days are over, the dog days are done ,” I howled, then writhed about in front of him before slamming the door in his face.
    I felt elated as I danced, singing at the top of my lungs. It felt so good to have shut him up! I really wanted to keep the game going and finish what I’d started; I decided I was going to ruin his whole day. He was obviously the kind of guy who would go and have a drink to calm down. So I picked up my keys and headed to the pub.
    Unlike the first time, I went into the pub in a civilized manner. I greeted everyone with a wave of the