Love Is Pink!

Michelle Kr?mer—#fuckedupwouldbebragging.

Baby needed to go out, so I quickly pulled on a pair of jogging pants over my pajamas, slipped into my ski jacket, and tugged a hat over my head to cover a good part of my face. Baby and I stumbled a couple of blocks to a public park.

On a park bench lay a copy of the Bild newspaper. Its front-page headline, “No White Christmas!” yammered at me.

How trivial! Who even needed those stupid white flakes?

Once back home, I fed Baby and ran myself a bath. I blessed the water lavishly with my best bubble bath, brewed myself some coffee, and retreated to the tub.

After a good hour, I at least felt clean, but my fingers and toes had lost circulation. On top of that, I was hungry. I warmed the next-to-last burger in the microwave and sat in front of the TV to watch It’s a Wonderful Life with Jimmy Stewart. I sobbed during the movie, especially during the final scene when the bells chimed so the angel could get his wings. I kept crying after it was over. Baby joined me for a bit, yowling in solidarity.

In an effort to cheer myself up, I decided to listen to the Christmas CD I’d found at Aldi. I spent the next hour with the remote control in my hand, pushing “Repeat” every time Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” came to an end. And I sobbed some more.

Outside, darkness was slowly falling. Christmas lights started twinkling in many of the apartments I could see out my window. Fewer and fewer people were on the street, as families hurried home to sit around their Christmas trees. I, however, had neither a family nor a tree.

It was high time.

Even though I really didn’t feel like it, I pulled myself together and dressed myself up. I wrapped a fresh Dior scarf around Baby and took him downstairs, where a taxi was waiting for us.

We circled around the lonely and deserted streets until the permanent lighting at Unter den Linden led us to the Brandenburg Gate. I got out there, gave the driver a generous tip, and stood alone with Baby at the Pariser Platz right in front of the gate. The Quadriga, a horse and chariot statue, didn’t interest me at the moment; instead, I wanted to see the enormous, beautiful Christmas tree.

I stood there beholding it for a long time, lost in thought.

“Now that’s a tree,” I said to Baby. “Have you ever seen one like that before?”

He answered by wagging his tail.

A cold wind had started to blow. Isolated, icy raindrops fell on my face.

“What do you think, Baby? Do you want to go to Starbucks, and I’ll have a coffee and you can get a muffin?”

Moments later, we were the only guests in the small establishment. I ordered myself a Caramel Macchiato with a dash of cinnamon—as I did every year—and Baby got a large blueberry muffin, which the clerk gave us for free. He probably felt sorry for me.

I sat down at the counter directly behind the paned glass and looked out to the majestic tree and the ethereal light that enveloped it.

The clerk decided to play Christmas music. Mariah Carey sang “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and she sounded very convincing. Until now, I’d never noticed just how deep some of these silly pop songs were.

My coffee was sweet and hot. I held the paper cup in my hand and wondered whether Madame Segebade’s daughter would visit her, or whether the old woman was just as alone as I was, sitting in her glorious castle, staring at her Christmas tree, full of despair.

A deafening shot broke the silence. No, it was a bang.

I looked out to where some taxis idled and noticed an ancient red-pink junker parking. The driver’s door opened and David got out. He talked briefly with the taxi drivers and headed straight into the coffee shop.

Since I was the only guest, he saw me immediately. He walked over to my table and stood in front of it.

I returned my thoughts and my gaze to the Christmas tree, barely paying attention to David. This was difficult, since Baby greeted him with wild affection.

“Is the seat next to you free?” David asked after a while.

“I think so,” I said. “The crowd is pretty under control at the moment.”

He sat down, cleared his throat, and said, “My name is David Rottmann. I’m an architect. I specialize in restoring historical landmarks, and I own a successful company.”

I looked at David and smiled at him mildly. “My name is Michaela Kr?mer. I’m a real estate agent.”

“Nice to meet you, Michaela.” He held out his hand.

I took it and had to force myself to let go of it.

“Apart from that,” he said, “I’m a single dad whose interested in a long-term relationship.”

I swirled the plastic stirrer in my coffee. “And what does long-term mean to you?”

He exhaled loudly. “I don’t know. Something like fifty or sixty years.”

I looked at my chic new Aldi watch. “Sixty years? I can live with that. I have to let you know, though, that I’m not uncommitted.”

“Hmm?”