Sonntag, 1. August 2010

At the traffic light


For one second I really think about getting into that car.
It's late afternoon in a city summer, I'm hot, exhausted.
The car is a huge, black Mercedes, one of those in Range Rover style, I don't know what they are called. The inside is all black leather, and I imagine it must be cold, air-conditioned; it would feel good against my bare legs.
A fancy stereo plays hard rock, that is propably the best part.
No, not really. The best part is the split second, where the guy in the car (also huge, muscular, bald) asks me: "Need a ride? Anywhere?". And I feel like I'm neither here nor there. I'm inbetween possibilities, which is my favorite state, where I don't have to act on my ambivalence but just let it be. I could get inside and we would just drive and not talk but listen to rock anthems on a high quality stereo. We'd only stop for food, gas and sex.

I shake my head, very slowly, and get on my bike.
The number plate of the Mercedes refers to 'Unna' and I drive home thinking that it would have been a very different kind of Alice in den Städten.


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