“Go on then. Go find your tragedy,” she said from the third floor balcony, leaning dangerously out over the railing to better glare at him. He’d been talking about an article he’d read that day. Something about novelists bringing the war back with them. How most great writers carried something terrible in their pockets. Something they couldn’t put down.
The railing pulled and creaked, and still she leaned over and continued yelling. The neighbours watched from their stoops and lawn chairs set on the sidewalk.
“Cause there’s nothing but fucking happiness here,” she said, stepping away and going back inside.