Fiction


Across the street, the flickering yellow sign – as if in a David Lynch film – stood alone in the night as the only proof for the now empty building. Züblin it read. One early morning that week, the trucks had arrived and the movers had efficiently packed everything together. On an unlikely day, a shabby farewell party was thrown in one of the offices, hierarchies shortly loosened up – I imagined – as music filled up the street. From my window, the compound looked quite daunting now. Lightening threatened the sky against Abbey’s hurtful voice.
Nearby, cars flashing in the highway pulled me out of my own domestic trance. Here I was. At a cross junction, every chance lying ahead of me.

Next morning the roads were deserted, silvery and slippery, hurting the eyes under the blinding sun. Days seemed to stroll one after the other without any auspicious sign. No magic was due to happen. It was time to move on.
The following night I dreamt of Vincent. He was wearing his worn out red pullover, the one we had found together in the back sit of a cab in Rom and which he had grew so fond of ever since. He was blowing colorfull party baloons in my dream, going red in the face and stumping his feet with laughter onto the ground.

The red pullover now layed in a wooden box full of bug and dust. Inside a hand full of small objects, my life’s wrecks. A golden lighter, his empty lavanda shaving cream, my silver cigarette case, my grandmother’s wood comb and wrist watch, our house keys in a keyholder with a small devil… my heart grew small and tight at the thought of it!

I was starting to see the enormity of the task ahead of me. A whole life to live, to fill in with words and feelings and people… I didn’t seem to come around and talk me into relaxing and seeing it as a rather normal thing. What to do with the rest of this life? It felt outrageous.

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