I fumble with the key for a while under the demanding pressure of my precious load and finally manage to drag her in without alaming the whole neighbourhood. I let her slip slowly onto the soft cushions of my big red reclyning chair. She really is beautiful, her wild blond hair frames her pretty face like a fire storm! The adrenalin-boost by the shock of our hefty collision must have relaxed her completely: she breathes calmly and regularely. She wears a loose purple university sweater and very sexy skin-tight pants - and there: her jeans are ripped open and her right knee is bleeding! I say: »Hey, hey, can you hear me!«, but the girl just stirs annoyed, grunts and relaxes again. I fetch some warm water and a clean clothe, but I'm not so sure about how to attack the task at hand. I try to push the leg of her pants gently up over the wounded knee, but it is far too tight. So I pull her jogging shoes off and massage her little feet for a while. My eyes follow up her trim legs to their. He took the world hesitantly and we simply stood there. His colour on my cheeks and my colour waiting in his hand, we both knew this position well, even though we had never held this stance before. He wasn’t going to trace the paste over his cheeks. It was dawn, and we both stood with breath held, in the middle of a forest far from home. I could feel dark droplets dripping down my cheeks, as if a colour could shed a tear, knowing I would not wish to cry for myself. And still, he stood, blank faced and confused, holding my world in his hands and never accepting the world as his own. ‘Come on, it’s too messy,’ he put the paste down on the grass, ‘we’re nowhere near soap, and look at you!’ He did not know. He did not know what shame I felt, as if I had stood naked before him and offered myself as a prize, yet he did not know. ‘it was a silly game anyway.’ I didn’t wipe the paste off my face still, I walked by his side that day, pretending all the while that he had returned my silly.
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