Anne didn’t really know what to do with herself, or with the happiness. When’s the last time she’d felt truly, genuinely happy?
It felt good. The very admittal seemed odd. Or rather, the need to admit it seemed odd. But Anne still needed to acknowledge that truth. For so long, she’d looked at happy people with scorn. She’d thought of them as delusional idiots, which left her unprepared to think of happiness as something that felt good — something you were supposed to aspire to.
Sitting in Prometheus’s garage, rewiring one of his suits, she was one happy motherfucker. She wondered what to do with herself.
What did happy people do? Swim? Eat cake? Laugh too loudly?
She wasn’t sure. So she let inertia carry her. She worked on Prometheus’s suit for a couple hours.
After she’d left, Prometheus had questions.
“Where do you think she goes, most days?” he asked Sharise.
Sharise shrugged. “Like I give a shit.”