You

“That was Freddie,” says Schnappi.

“Maybe we should put Freddie to sleep,” says Ruth’s mother.

“God, Mom,” sighs Ruth without looking up from the magazine.

“Don’t ‘God Mom’ me, Ruth, or I’m throwing you all out.”

Ruth pretends not to have heard anything and holds up the magazine. You shake your heads. No points. You’re TV series junkies and you’ve seen all the episodes of Lost at least twice; as far as you’re concerned the women have to look like Kate or nothing at all.

“Milla Jovovich,” says Nessi.

“Julie Delpy,” says Ruth’s mother.

“Minnie Driver,” says Schnappi.

You burst out laughing.

“Why are you laughing?” asks Schnappi.

“You wouldn’t recognize Minnie Driver if she sat on your lap.”

“Would too.”

Ruth looks at the magazine. Of course Nessi’s right. Ruth’s mother curses, she could have sworn that was Julie Delpy. Stink coughs out the smoke.

“What’s the matter with you?” asks Ruth’s mother.

“Cancer,” says Stink and thumps her chest.

“You don’t make jokes about that.”

“Tell that to my doctor.”

You all giggle, Ruth’s mother narrows her eyes slightly. Dangerous.

“Isabell, I don’t want you to smoke in our living room. How many times—”

“God, Mom,” Ruth butts in and lowers the magazine. “Really, that’s enough. Please shut the door behind you. Take a look …”

She points around her, as if her mother hadn’t noticed where she was.

“—this is a girls’ meeting.”

For a moment you think Ruth has gone too far. You’re the only one grinning, because you know how Ruth’s mother will react. My daughter, she will say and smile.

“My daughter,” she says and smiles.

“My mom,” Ruth replies and smiles back and disappears into her magazine again as if her mother had left the room ages ago.

Schnappi strokes your head, you stretch and purr like you were Freddie. Nessi shifts her backside on the beanbag and says: This is going to be a delicious chili. You all snort with laughter, and when you’ve calmed down you notice that Ruth’s mother is still standing in the doorway.

“You’re such a bunch of bitches,” she says.

Stink doesn’t contradict her.

“We might be bitches,” she says, “but we’re sweet bitches.”

Schnappi raises her thumb, Ruth raises her thumb, and you raise your left leg. Nessi just shrugs and says, “When Stink’s right, she’s right.”

Ruth’s mother leans forward, her mouth moves, no words come out, but you’re used to reading her lips. Whether it’s Get out or Shut up. You know the nuances. You’re familiar with this one too. I hate you. It’s meant nicely. No one hates you, you are loved. The door closes, and at that very moment Parachutes comes to an end, the last song fades away, and you know what that means—there’ll be a little pause, followed by the song that Ruth found on the internet. A rarity that doesn’t appear on any Coldplay album. At any moment a guitar will come in and you’ll sing along the way you always do.

You taste the first lines in your mouth and realize why time has dragged you here—this song belongs to what has been, and it belongs to the Taja who will lie nine months later completely wasted on the sofa in her father’s living room and lose her connection with reality.

But your hair’s still long, your girlfriends are still with you, and you’re not yet the loneliest person in the world. The song brings everything together. You wait, the pause ends, the guitar sounds and you take a breath and Stink says, “Don’t imagine it’ll be as easy as that.”

You look at her with surprise. These are the wrong words. You’re singing now, it’s got to happen, but the music has fallen silent, no one’s singing.

Wrong, you think, that’s wrong.

“We’ll sing along later,” says Ruth and lowers the remote control.

“Did you really think you could avoid us?” Schnappi asks.

You sit up and slide away from her on your butt, a few nachos crumble under your hand, the girls look at you.

“We’re waiting,” says Stink.

“For … for what?”

You go quiet, you’re just bluffing, because you know very well what they’re waiting for. Nessi rummages in her jeans and throws you her phone.

“I’ve tried to contact you thirty-six times. Check, if you don’t believe me.”

“And I’ve tried just as many times,” says Schnappi.

“I hate your voicemail more than I hate the fucking Simpsons,” says Ruth.

Stink slips from the windowsill and crouches in front of you.

“Now will you tell us what’s up with you?”

You smell her breath. Cigarettes and lemon ice cream. Stink takes your hand in hers. And the way she’s looking at you, the way all your girls are looking at you, you tell them the truth.

“I’m not really here. I’m from the future.”

Ruth crouches down next to Stink.

“Christ, Taja, we know that already.”