 |
 |
|
|
| Sunday, late – Barcelona
Rambla de Catalunya at a festive little table with a red tablecloth; everything late and full, everywhere the sound of Spanish – Spanish with people in it, Spanish full of far away and gone; cold beer and tapas smelling so good that they must taste of a different life but you say please don’t “bitte keine Witze machen” because you’re going to cry, your eyes are already swimming. You don’t know what’s suddenly gone so wrong, probably hormones, but the whole day you’ve been seeing yourself look fatter in these shining shop windows than every other woman your age in this beautiful city and your hair is falling out and your skin is in a state and I shouldn’t tell you I think you’re beautiful because how would I know because look I just don’t really look at you anymore. That’s the problem’s with me, you see? I’m always somewhere else, I always act as if all vanity is nonsense. I seem to believe everything is made of rot and ruin, but I shouldn’t think my attitude is helping you because anyway other men are not “überhaupt nicht” not at all like me and you also want to be beautiful for other men, so that they have to look at you, so that you can feel good with me and I say but they do look at you, they look, honest! But I’m not convincing because you seem so lost you look right through me for help so desperately that I begin to feel an unreasonable rage, but I just take a serious sip of beer, try to look sympathetic, try to take your hand, but you pull away and we just sit there until you can’t do it anymore and say that we should please “bitte” go to the hotel and bed you feel nauseous with misery you have a stone in your gut, “einen Stein im Bauch”, you’re sorry you don’t know, probably nothing, “es geht schon wieder” but now you’re really crying and I I sit and look at you just sit and look at you. |