We’re standing in my kitchen, in my empty apartment. I put my ice cream in the freezer. He laughs. Still standing there. Ignore the dishes in the sink, our sweaty bodies, his head is buried in me, I stroke his neck. The duck fluff hair that I joke about, that he says needs a haircut. We are there for a long time.
He sniffs. I sniff. I’ve already cried once today, in public. Three different people yelled at me in uniforms and in a language I still don’t understand. The opera house has surprisingly few private corridors for one to cry in, especially considering the bathroom attendant is one of the ones who yelled at me. We sat.
Your eyes are pretty. I ask to clarify.
Your eyes are pretty red.
Oh. Great. Well, I’m just weeping as operagoers pass. Red eyes are the least of my concern.
At the graveyard, earlier.
I might cry today.
I mean, I will cry.
I couldn’t cry this morning. Z was weeping.
If I cry and you don’t, I’m going to kick you.
I know where.
We sing at Mozart’s grave, alternating notes, in octaves beyond our reach. Nothing but the earth moving beneath my feet. Perhaps Mozart is rolling in the same direction.
We drank at the Schwarzenberg Café afterwards. Moments of silence, slowly eating our torte and drinking our drinks, wondering if I really meant it.
I mean, I’ll only miss you until I see you again. And that will happen.
We don’t move, in the yellow kitchen light. But somehow we’re in front of the doorway. Looking at each other with red eyes. There is something so sad in my face. I know if he cries I’ll cry. He knows if I cry he’ll cry. We give each other weak smiles.
I love you.
I love you too. I’m so glad I got to know you this semester. You’ll visit me.
We go into each other again. Almost.
There’s my Strassenbahn.
I love you. He says this down the hall.
I lock the door. Open my window. I shout.
Meine lieblings Kind-
A red van comes down the road. He stops, swerves.
-Don’t get hit by a car.
The first door doesn't open.
I wait. Watch him run.
Second door stays shut.
He runs to the front. I pray for the conductor to be a sadist for my own wish, for a few more minutes. The conductor lets him in.
The sadness has come so fast.
I have heard three trams pass since.