Happiness Is A Chemical In The Brain: Stories - Plot & Excerpts
Whenever I think of my husband’s mistress, the person who pops into my head is the former president of France. He had his mistress and he also had his life as a statesman. His country and his many women. Not mind over body, but mind and body dropped into separate pans of the scale. And the pans both resting on the air. The air that will let neither drop. Not that I have much faith in the air’s good intentions. I happen to have a disease of the sort that will not kill me, a fact that strikes me as unfortunate because, more than death, I am afraid of the whining sap who might emerge from the medley of my pains. In my view, the air is full of chemicals, and as for the mind — well, the mind is a dog that the body walks on its short leash. That’s how I came to sniffing like a hound for any possible mistress who crossed my path. I sniffed Daphne my neurologist and I sniffed Julie, the carpenter who built the ramp that would get me into the house once I could no longer walk at all.
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