Saturday, February 14, 2009


Midnight: I start drinking the 1,97 euro champagne. I leave some phone calls, sing with the roommates, get dressed, ask opinions. Realize aloud that tights make my legs look less white, especially black tights. Settle for black dress, black tights, red FMPs. Stumble across the bridge, along the street. It's twelve thirty. I ask a woman with a German Shephard (are they still called German Shephards here?). She tells me it's parallel to this street. Almost there. Pick the button? I have been in a delayed state. An hour ago I opened the champagne. Anticipated catastrophic results, the last time I almost shot Lorena's eye out. Covered the top with a towel, unhooked, and nothing. A small pop. I breathe. And then it explodes. Glass and feathers are everywhere. I use the only clean towel to wipe up the champagne. I arrive at the club.

Berlin: I've never been to a club here. So of course once I start clubbing in Germany, it makes sense to go to Club Berlin. Bermuda Triangle. I go in and wander. Am convinced that I don't need a beer, that the rum and coke will be fine. The man with the unbuttoned button up and the waxed chest, the look that screams beautiful douchebag, tops the half full glass with rum. Zoe laughs, she doesn't need that. I drink it. They only play American music here. Come on Eileen, I love this song. We dance, and there are two men in glasses, round young faces behind me. I move into their circle. If one of them was the love of my life, we would have Charlie Brown children, perfectly spherical heads. I have a beer. A man, shaved head with a goatee, stops me and asks me something in German. We start talking, and he introduces me to his girlfriend. They ask me where I'm from, and what I study, and if I sing, and other things as I drink more beer. I play with matches, lighting them one at a time and waiting until the last minute to part my fingers and watch it float to the floor.

Outside: I push my grandmother out of the way, running up the stairs. It's much later. I've bought Grace a shot. I need to go home, I just live over there. Why was my grandmother in the bar? I run outside. Lean against the column. Puke my fucking brains out. I hold my skirt back. Blot my lipstick. Walk a few more feet. Puke. Why did I see her? Why do I let people fuck with my confidence? I hail a cab. I'm wearing mismatched underwear. Red lacy bra. Nude granny panties that come up to my waist. He drives me home, somehow. I pay him. He tries to kiss me. Does he? What the shit? I open the door. Trip on the curb. Pick myself up, run to my door. He follows me. I shake my head. No. Don't kiss me, I don't kiss strangers, and apparently I'm horrible at it anyways, don't waste your time with the drunk girl. I walk past my apartment, past the old Jewish ghetto, past the Donau, past Bratislava. I'm in Russia now. I wake up in my bed, some hours later.

1 comment:

Grand Sultan Jason said...

I wish I had the writing style you do. Really. This is a very well-written piece.