Love Is Pink!

The winter white was disappearing and—it seemed to me—being replaced with a bleak gray that hovered over the whole world. And over me, too.

At first, David tried to fight against our collective dim mood. He played some Christmas songs. And for over an hour, he led us in games of Twenty Questions and I Spy with My Little Eye. But none of us really had much fun. It was as though we’d left all of our good cheer in the little castle in Alsace.

Around noon, Emma got hungry, so we stopped at McDonald’s one last time. I chewed on a salad and bit into a cheeseburger, but I couldn’t taste a thing. I had no appetite. Baby got my leftovers. We’d stopped talking, and I had the feeling that the intimacy that had grown between us was diminishing by the minute—just like the distance that separated us from Berlin.

That it was our last day together was probably for the best, even though it was painful for me. Our lives were too different. I wanted to achieve something, to become someone others would look up to. David, on the other hand—and I had to sigh at this thought—wasn’t interested in any of that. He was satisfied with his completely mediocre existence.

Valentin represented the stark opposite. I tried to imagine him and shuddered—I could no longer remember the details of his face. I knew that he had brown eyes and wore Davidoff Cool Water. But the rest? The excitement of the last few days had definitely affected me more than I liked to admit.

I decided to test myself. I closed my eyes and imagined someone that I knew well. Totally randomly, David appeared. And it frightened me. Every detail of his face, every shade in his eyes. His dimples when he laughed, the feel of his hand in mine, our only kiss. It was all so intense in my mind that I felt dizzy.

What had happened?

Valentin and I—we were made for each other. My future and my purpose lay with him. Michelle von Gertenbach. By his side, I’d be rich and happy . . .

Well, probably rich, unless what his wife told me was true. And happy? I thought about it. Was I ever really happy with Valentin? But of course! I lived in a penthouse with chic furniture, and I wore designer clothing. We went to the theater and the opera and other events—if not in Berlin (because of his wife), at least in other exciting cities. I had everything my heart desired.

Come on, Michelle! Try harder! I pressed my eyes shut for a second time with the intention of conjuring up Valentin’s face. And again, nothing. Just a yawn of emptiness. Then I saw a silver picture frame. It was clear in my mind. Aha! Whenever I went away for longer periods, I’d take Valentin’s portrait with me. That’s why I wasn’t accustomed to imagining my lover’s face—I’d always used the picture to remind me. I felt relieved. But that feeling only lasted for a moment. A dark doubt was settling into my chest. Had I been carrying Valentin’s portrait because he hadn’t made any sort of lasting impression on me? Because he meant nothing to me and never had?

I opened my eyes and looked at the rain outside. The contours of the landscape were blurry.

In those last few minutes, a suspicion had come over me. A totally outrageous one. The suspicion that maybe my feelings were so confused because a twist of fate had led me to fall in love with a man who wasn’t suited to me. An attractive man who kissed like no one else. A man I’d gotten to know far better than I’d ever known Valentin during the three whole years we’d spent together.

David.





34


Shortly before we got to Berlin, our tank was as dry as last year’s Christmas cookies. We pulled off at the next gas station and spent the rest of our money. Sixteen euros changed hands.

We didn’t stop for long. Once back in the car, David turned the ignition key.

Nothing.

He tried again several times. Not even the slightest sound. No explosion, no small cloud, no screech, no rattle. Nothing at all.

Apparently, the Citro?n didn’t want to go home. That made two of us. David dove under the hood, only to report shortly thereafter that perhaps, possibly, probably somewhere—he couldn’t say for sure and in which place (or if at all)—water had gotten through, and that now . . . blah, blah, blah . . . the Citro?n was on strike.

He disappeared into the gas station and seemed defeated when he came back, yet also determined not to let it get him down.

“A tow truck is on its way.”

“You can afford that?” I asked. I’d almost said we instead of you, but I’d caught myself just in time.

“I have an ADAC roadside assistance membership. The tow is free of charge.”

And no sooner had he’d spoken those words, than a tow truck arrived at the station. A young guy jumped out of the driver cab.

“Man, what a jalopy!” He pointed to our Citro?n, and I immediately disliked him.