You

“What about you? Still at school?”

You show him your wrist. There’s a little tattoo at the spot where they take your pulse. The writing’s tiny, one word, not more.

“Gone?”

“Right, gone.”

“School?”

You nod.

“High school graduation?”

“Nah.”

You roll your eyes and laugh. Be honest, you don’t look like graduation. You look like a wildcat in a petting zoo. But don’t tell him that. And watch out, here comes the next question.

“And what are your plans?”

“We’ll see. Maybe I’ll open a beauty salon. Something like that. You?”

“I don’t know where I want to go.”

Funny answer, you think, and pretend to study the movie posters. Let the guy look at you in peace. Maybe he hasn’t got a girlfriend, you could be with him for a while. But guys like him always have girlfriends. One of those smoothies who never have to go to the bathroom and in the morning they smell like flowers. That’s the kind of girl he would have. He’s much too nice for this world—he speaks nice, he smells nice and seems to have money. Maybe he’ll lend you ten euros, then you’d have to see each other again so that you could give him the money back.

You feel him looking at you. His eye wanders up from your platforms up to your worn bell-bottomed cord jeans, the belt pulled tight, narrow waist, blouse under your velvet jacket, long pause on your breasts—of course he lingers there, he paid for the ice cream, he can linger. Perhaps he’s noticed that your red hair makes you look a bit like the actress Kristen Bell, but he’s probably never even seen Veronica Mars or Heroes.

“How old are you?” he asks and his eyes are on your mouth.

“Seventeen,” you lie, adding a year. “You?”

“Too old.”

“Come on.”

“How about twenty-seven?”

“Definitely too old,” you say and laugh.

He laughs too, takes a breath and tells you his name.

“Nice to meet you, Neil. I’m Stink.”

“Funny name.”

You wave dismissively.

“It’s because of the perfume.”

“You named yourself after a book?”

“What book?”

“You know, the novel.”

“No, it’s because I always smell so nice. Here.”

He bends forward and sniffs your wrist.

“Smells good.”

You look at each other. He knows there is more to this name.

“And because I’m mostly in a bad mood,” you admit. “Mostly always.”

“A real stinker, then.”

“Better believe it.”

He thinks for a moment, he looks to his left, he looks to his right.

“I have an idea,” he tells you. “Will you come with me?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Now it is your turn to look around. Your girls will be gone for more than an hour. You could die of boredom or you could go on an adventure.

“You lead, I will follow,” you say to Neil.

So he leads you down the street and stops next to a Jaguar, smart and red and with Hamburg plates.

“Wow, where’d you get that?”

“Swiped it off my mother,” says Neil and opens the door for you.

RUTH (#ulink_89a545c9-8692-5b52-94d0-66f925ce15de)

Once upon a time there were five girls and I was one of them. The fairy tale could start like that. One of them. That’s exactly how you feel, lying on your back, above you the moss-green ceiling that you painted one afternoon with your girls because the pink was getting on your nerves and you needed a change. You’re living with your parents in an old stylish apartment block they bought when you were born. Your top bunk is six feet up. Every morning it’s like waking up in a forest. Now the green reminds you of the sea that you saw while traveling around the Bahamas with your parents. Of course you had to dive, and it nearly happened there in the water. You lost yourself for a moment. You were part of the deep and you didn’t know what was up and what was down. It was the best experience you’ve ever had, and since then you’ve been wondering what would have happened if you’d made the wrong choice and gone on deeper. How do you lose yourself? Do you disappear or do you become part of the water?

Now you’re lying on your bed, and the moss-green ceiling is within reach of your hands. Even though you’re sure no one can just go missing like that, you’re not so sure what’s happening between your legs. Is it his tongue or is it his finger? You look down, his head is moving, so it must be his tongue. God, he’s taking his time. You’re sorry it has come to this. Why did you just let yourself go like that?

He asked so nicely.

That’s all?

That’s all.