February, 24

In the middle of the night I wake up, freezing cold am I and for half an hour I look out of the window into the deep night, where not a single star can be spotted. One hour and a hot bottle later, I am not that cold anymore and fall back asleep. Of a marriage I dream, taking place in a wasteland and unable I am to identify groom and bride. The sun rises golden as an ancient coin above the tree tops, high and higher. „Bon voyage“, sun I say and listen to the radio, where a film critic endlessly talks about a film he disliked, but I do not care anyway and as so often I wonder, why critics never seem to be quick, smart and surprising but rather dull while repeating the very same empty phrases. I turn the radio off and for long hours I sit at my desk, sometimes car doors are opened, a dog barks here and then and the birds are shirking and arguing with each other, the postman leans his bike against the fence and I pick up a parcel for the neighbors that never seem to be at home at all. The printer for whatever reason does not print. I talk gently to him. I pet his black housing if it would be a stubborn dog, I curse him and I tell him a horrible story of ending up in a recycling centre in very due course. The printer is not impressed at all and remains silent. I give the printer and myself a rest, cheese I buy, a few grapes, a hopefully ripe mango and a bottle of milk. Back on my desk I ignore the printer, just sometimes when getting up to grab a book from the shelve I murmur: „recycling centre“, after six hours of deep and stubborn silence, the printer finally gives in and out of the blue, twenty pages fall into my hands. Good choice, printer I say, but the printer has pride as well and reclines any comment. The sun is gone, with the neighbor I talk about her sister, who crammed a massive, black sideboard in an already narrow hallway. This will be a difficult thing to solve, but not today. Four plates, glasses and cutlery I place on the table, cheese and grapes are already there, the bread is in its basket, the mango is juicy and of a brilliant yellow is her flesh that shines as the sun in the morning, and sticky drips the juice from my fingers, while waiting for D., L. and K. I read a few pages in Peter Ackroyd’s book on the Thames, tired I am a bit and a message I am waiting for does not come and so I am relieved when the bell rings and D’s laughter sounds vividly and infectious through the staircase up to my door.

Kommentar verfassen

Trage deine Daten unten ein oder klicke ein Icon um dich einzuloggen:

WordPress.com-Logo

Du kommentierst mit Deinem WordPress.com-Konto. Abmelden / Ändern )

Twitter-Bild

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Twitter-Konto. Abmelden / Ändern )

Facebook-Foto

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Facebook-Konto. Abmelden / Ändern )

Google+ Foto

Du kommentierst mit Deinem Google+-Konto. Abmelden / Ändern )

Verbinde mit %s