the list of awkward

· we start from a pretty weird situation already
· theater, no theater, come there, meet there, go together, meet here, meet there.
· see you lying down on ground and think "ireallywannalaydownnexttoherandsayhi,butibetternot"

i usually do what i feel, and i don't know why i don't with you.––[editor's note]

· we find a bar. we can't get in.
· then we go to a nice place, but i can't even order a spoon.
· we go to the theater i get your name wrong. i start hating myself for the rest of the night or eternity, whichever ends first.
· we ride on the subway. i'm scared shitless that there'd be a control, we'd get fined and you'd associate me with getting harassed in german and minus €40.
· i'm supposed to help you with your bike and i don't.
· we get to my house. i leave you waiting outside. again.
· we ride to neukölln or to bayern, whichever came first, i want to keep chatting while riding because i think it's a usually a beautiful thing–you know, air and city landscape at speed, while you hear a familiar voice, it's like being in a movie and it would've been great to be there with you. i can't because there's traffic and this asshole honks at you and you have to tell me: i don't like riding in the middle of the street, as if i didn't know.
· we get to the bar, i get the feeling you're waiting for someone who doesn't show up. i'm afraid to ask.
· i go and get beers, but an annoying person keeps hitting on this german guy at the bar. i leave you waiting. again.
· i ask you why you keep folding the volksbühne flyer wrong because i want to know if it's what you do when you think about books you make, like new ways of binding books and origami books and whatnot. it all comes out wrong, as a reproach.
· i find €50. i assume they were yours because i only notice them when you get up from your usual crossedleggedness. when you come back i wrapped them and immediately i realize it looks like i'm giving you €50. i feel so stupid i just want to dissolve into my beer and fizz away within microseconds. i try to explain, but there's nothing to do.
· you say you're tired, i am basically mute. i realize you're saying goodbye. i start thinking about writing this.

only moment when i felt alright: sitting on that 1900's bench-couch, our legs drawing a triangle, looking at how round and curved the hall was and how sparkling were the crystals in the chandelier and in your eyes. your voice was soft and i was relaxed, smoking a cuban cigar. i we both dressed elegantly; i had a mustache and an iron car parked outside. we were high-society members, well respected among the artistic elites, conspiring against a blackshirt regime, we patronized opposition theater. but the time had come, we would've been arrested come morning. sitting on the couch, away from inquiring eyes, i asked you to elope with me to switzerland, and start a new life there. you obviously said yes.

for k-n