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Our apartment welcomes me, dark and empty. The stack of bags on the beer crate starts to slide as I try to flip the light switch with my elbow.
Somehow, I manage to catch it by pressing the crate against the wall with my hip. But that doesn’t help much. Because just as I’m about to put the bags down, the much-too-short-timed light in the stairwell turns off. I’m standing in complete darkness. My hip bone hurts, and the handles of the bags, which I have only caught with my fingertips, cut into my flesh.
Oh my God, what a mess!Secretly I curse Kevin, who is now sitting with Pascal and binge-watching a show, but on the other hand… As I drop the bag with Mr. Sandtmann’s turtleneck—in contrast to my purchases from the discount store, nothing can break in it—and grab the handle of the beer crate, a frightening idea forces itself upon me: How my notoriously jealous boyfriend will take this bag, out of everything I’m holding, from me. And find in it the proof of a rival…
No, I’d rather juggle bottles, boxes, and bags here alone!
Finally, I gain control of the situation. I find the light switch and close the door behind me. With aching fingers, I place the beer in the gap next to the kitchen counter—without breaking a single bottle!
Done!Next, into the bathroom, out of my business clothes, and into my pink feel-good plush overalls.
If Kevin isn’t there, he can’t complain about my bad taste and my childish streak.
I draw a puckered nose at my reflection in the mirror and fish theChic & Gracetote bag off the floor, which I wisely brought with me.
After a glance at the care label on the side seam of Mr. Sandtmann’s top, I run lukewarm water into the sink.
From the edge of the bathtub behind me, I grab my shampoo bottle and add a squirt. Long ago, I discovered shampoo works best for woolen clothing.
The turtleneck is already hovering a few millimeters above the foam carpet in the pool.
Suddenly, my hands yank it back, as if they had a life of their own. Before I realize it, my nose is already buried in the finely knitted fabric. I find myself inhaling the mixture of scents clinging to it.
Exotic. Masculine. Dangerous.
Oh my God!I tear myself away and blink my eyes considering the stranglehold my fingers have on the knit fabric of the sweater.Am I completely crazy now?
Guys like this Mr. Sandtmann profess a subculture with their tattoos and piercings. They deliberately place themselves outside all social norms, which is why I have avoided any contact with them so far.
Nevertheless, a strange shudder runs through me as I remember the massive-looking stainless steel tube sticking in Mr. Sandtmann’s earlobe. Clearly, I’m just disgusted, right? After all, you could see through the hole measuring half an inch in the jewelryandin his flesh!
The ringing of the phone snaps me out of it.
I drown the sweater in the water, which has cooled down considerably in the meantime and rush into the hallway, drying my hands.
“Celine Lechner,” I announce, half-questioningly, because the phone has no caller ID.Never look a gift horse in the mouth.Still, I couldn’t help thinking that Kevin’s parents only gave it to us when we moved in because they wanted to replace the prehistoric model with a modern one.
“Met mevrouwVan Vries[2],” sounds from the handset, and I squeal with delight.
“MetCeline,” I reply automatically in Dutch. “Hoi[3], Aunt Mareike!”
“Hoi, poepie[4],” she greets me, using the term of endearment she always uses, but it brings a blush to my face.After all, at twenty-five,little stinkerdoesn’t really fit me anymore, does it?But my aunt, with whom I grew up after the accidental death of my parents, shuts down any discussion of this with Frisian stubbornness. “How are you?”
Well, what should I answer? Hoi, Auntie, I’ve just been sniffing the clothes of a literal outlaw in a fit of sensual rapture?A burst of laughter slips out of me. “Great,” I say. “Everything is just dandy.”
“Wat fijn[5],” Aunt Mareike remarks. “So, your appointment went well today?”
“Wow, you remembered?” I clamp the phone between my ear and armpit and go back into the bathroom to move the turtleneck in the shampoo bath before the water has completely cooled down.
“I marked really thick and red on my calendar that mypoepieneeds my fingers crossed today.” Aunt Mareike laughs. “But as cheery as you sound, it seems to have helped. So, are you splashing around in the bathtub to relax?”
“No, I’m not taking a bath… What makes you think so?”
“There’s water splashing, isn’t there, or is my hearing going bad already? No, Horst, stop it, that tickles!” She giggles, and there is rustling and crackling on the line before she speaks again. “Sorry, but thiskereltje[6]… Sometimes I think he cannot be older than seventeen…”
I have to smile.
Horst, the little guy about whom Aunt Mareike rants so affectionately, is actually over seventy years old. He really is a blessing for my godmother, who initially fell into a deep hole of depression after the death of her husband three years ago.
