A sip of Joy.

"How was your day?" I asked.

She smiled.

"It was perfect."

"What happened?"

"I had a perfect cup of coffee this morning. A song I hadn't heard in years came on while I was driving. I found a parking spot exactly when I needed one."

She looked at the Negroni waiting in front of her.

"And now I'm about to have a Negroni."

I laughed.

"That's enough to make a perfect day?"

"They're enough to notice one, I celebrate things most people don't even notice, They call them small things," she said. "I don't."

She let the silence settle between us.

"I'm glad you're happy," I said.

"There is a distinction between happiness and joy."

"Happiness always seems to live in the future," she said. "It's waiting behind the next promotion, the next city, the next relationship, the next version of yourself. Happiness is an achievement we keep postponing."

She paused.

"But joy has terrible timing. It interrupts you while you're busy waiting for happiness. Joy never asks you to become someone else first."

For a second, I lost my sight. Not literally.

It was one of those strange moments when your eyes remained open, but your mind unfolded a secret so vast that everything in front of you disappeared.

Maybe that was the difference. Happiness is always arriving.

Joy has been here the whole time, patiently waiting to be noticed.

I placed the Negroni in front of her.

She took the first sip.

"You keep searching for happiness," she said.

I smiled.

"Everything you describe still sounds so... small."

"It probably does," she said. "Because you're measuring life by milestones."

She paused.

"I measure it by moments."

"And where does joy begin?" I asked.

She looked at me for a second.

"It doesn't."

I searched her face for an explanation.

"What do you mean?"

She looked at me.

"It was already happening before you asked the question."

I walked away to serve someone else.

The music was still playing, she caught my eye from the corner of the bar, smiled, and took another sip of her Negroni.

Nothing had changed, except me. None of it felt small anymore.

I went back to her after a while.

She looked at me and before I could say a word, she continued.

"You still don't get it."

"I thought I did."

She shook her head.

"Joy isn't fancy."

She let that sit between us.

"That's why you don't like it."

I laughed.

"I like joy."

"No," she said. "You like the idea of joy. The version that's worth posting. Worth remembering. Worth telling people about."

She took another sip of her Negroni.

"Joy doesn't care about any of that."

"So where do I find it?"

She smiled.

"You're still trying to find it."

I stayed quiet.

"I'm not asking you to find anything," she said. "I'm asking you to notice."

She looked around the room.

"Observe."

Another pause.

"Stop curating joy."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you don't have to arrange your life into something beautiful before you're allowed to enjoy it."

She pushed the glass a little closer.

"Now..."

"Enjoy your Negroni."

I took a sip.

It tasted a little more like joy.