Written by Larissa Straßer
Out of the darkness, out of the cold, a smell of sweet wine and raisins flows towards me. Not because she’s been drinking or baking, that’s just her smell. In other texts, I’ve tried to capture her scent better, because she smells beautiful, but I’ve always just reached similar descriptions. Her eyes are framed with a bit too much eyeliner; she looks older, probably on purpose. Her earrings are hanging almost on her shoulders, her long scarf has brown stains on its ends. Nina buys everything a few sizes too big.
“What are you doing here?” I ask her, trying to sound more harsh than startled. Thinking about our last encounter, I feel a naive sharp pain, a pressure to be someone else. I’m still holding onto the door handle very tightly, not to shut it in her face but rather to have the option to deny her and to continue watching my monotone TV show and scrolling through all my e-mails. I’m glad I put on my prettier sweater.
“I want to talk to you.” No eye contact. She’s looking into my hallway; she glances at the picture of the fork on the wall. It now feels stupid looking at it through her eyes. Nina has paintings of her artsy friends hanging in her flat. I buy framed pictures at flea markets, dust them off and hang them directly on the wall.
“You could have texted me. How do you even know where I live?” I’m trying to remember if Nina has ever been at my place. We used to spend our long nights only at hers.
“I was here once when it was your birthday.” I remember now. I even bought a party garland. I also remember why I don’t remember her there. She only showed up for twenty minutes and texted me the next day that my friends made her nervous and she liked me better when it was only the two of us. I was confused when she said that; my friends had said similar things about her. Nina takes a step towards me, seemingly convinced that I’m going to let her in. On her wrist, next to her usual jewelry, I can see a new tattoo. I would like to know what it means and how much she’s spent on it this time, but it seems weird to ask since we haven’t seen each other in so long.
“Okay, come in. But I’m not gonna stay up late, I have to go out early tomorrow”, a lie. Maybe she still knows that I don’t work Wednesdays. For a second, I examine her face, trying to see if she realizes. She doesn’t say anything, but looks at me with a tiny grin, one corner of her mouth lifting just a bit. That’s enough to know, because it’s Nina. I let her in, and by habit, I lean in for a hug, but she’s already bent over to untie her boots. Next to her feet I see a big pile of dust; unexpectedly I see a lot of dirt on my usually clean floor. The dirt has been brought in by some of my guests in the last few weeks. I imagine Nina ringing my doorbell while I’m in the shower, an unknown, half-naked person opens the door for her, and she’s in this awkward situation having to explain herself. Maybe she would have made something up, maybe that she’s my neighbor and she wants to pick up a package.
“Weird to see your flat like this. It seems so empty and small without the people in it.” She has cut her hair and styled it in a new way. Now that she’s closer, I can smell her hair gel, maybe it’s raspberry. For a second, we just stand there. She looks up to me, now that her boots don’t add another seven centimetres. We both don’t know where to put ourselves, like we are strangers in my own flat. This feeling takes me back, trying so hard to make her comfortable, to make her smile, getting nothing in return but her empty stare. I try to decide where to go, there are not many options in my small apartment. The kitchen seems so cold, with its hard steel chairs and pepper and salt on the table. Otherwise, I only have my bed to talk. I rule it out, it’s so tiny and warm. So I go on and wait for her to follow. She pauses to look at the fork on the wall for a moment, like it’s a work of art to be interpreted. I examine it closely and register that, in small letters in the corner, it says “60×90 cm”. In fact, it is a stock photo, just a frame from the supermarket for people to fill it with better motives, like their family or dog. I didn’t even notice. Quickly I return to my walk, now in the kitchen, take two glasses from the cupboard, and put them on the crumbly kitchen table. For someone who likes to talk, she hasn’t said a lot.
“What would you like to talk about?” I ask while I pour some water for us and swiftly wipe away a fat stain from her glass. For the first time ever, I sense a tension in her, her hand shivering while she picks up the glass. Nina’s voice cracks when she starts the sentence with “I am”.