Love Is Pink!

Clumsily, I removed my gloves, pushed my ski goggles up, and studied my hands. They looked as if I had gout. Lightly clawed, beet-red, cracked skin, and one, two—no, three—of my nails were broken. It took considerable effort to move my fingers at all.


I took off my drenched hat and lay it on the heater. My carefully coiffed hair was now soaking wet and sticking to my forehead.

I lifted my head and met the cashier’s wide-open eyes. And she wasn’t the only one ogling me. The other customers were openly staring, too. Normally, it would have gotten to me, but now I couldn’t have cared less. Let them think what they wanted. They hadn’t spent hours crossing Antarctica.

My face felt like it was on fire. I pulled several paper napkins out of the steel dispenser on the table and dried my stinging cheeks. The box was useful as a mirror.

My eyeliner and mascara were smeared. I looked like a clown. With no other choice, I rubbed off all my makeup, which, in turn, made my face burn even more. I’d probably gotten third-degree frostbite and would have to go through life with skin as red as a fire-alarm box.

From behind, a little girl’s face appeared next to mine in the reflective surface.

I turned toward her. She had brown locks, giant blue eyes, and countless freckles. I wanted to send the clear message that I was not OK with her getting so close to me, that I needed my space, and that I couldn’t stand children at all. But the girl smiled.

And I began to cry.

“Are you sad?” she asked.

I really wanted to tell her to mind her own business, but in that very moment she took one of the napkins and started dabbing the tears off my face.

I swallowed whatever was on my tongue.

“Are you sad?” she repeated.

“Yes, very,” I admitted.

The little girl continued drying my cheeks while pointing out the window with her other hand. “Have you seen the big snowstorm?”

Against my will, I laughed. “Oh, have I.”

The girl giggled, too. “It’s really cold. Better not go out in it.”

“You’re right about that. What’s your name?”

“Emma.”

What an uncomplicated name, I thought. But then I examined the girl more closely. Emma suited her—100 percent.

“And are you alone?” I asked. For some reason, I was enjoying her company.

Emma crinkled her nose. “What are you thinking? I’m only five.” She lifted four fingers high. “I can’t travel alone on the highway.”

I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

“I’m here with my papa. We’re driving home.” She paused and thought for a moment. “Are you traveling with your papa?”

“I’m too old for that,” I said.

She nodded in a seemingly adult manner. “And we have a really, really cool new car. Do you have a car, too?”

“No, I’m on foot.”

“On foot? In the snow? Don’t you want to drive with us? We have lots of room in our car. It’s really great.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

Emma grabbed my arm and shook it. “Come on! Papa will be glad. Then he won’t be lonely anymore when I sleep in the backseat.”

Somewhat against my will, I got up and let myself be dragged across the room. There were parking spaces right in front of the restaurant. One of the cars had its hood up. The car looked spacious indeed. It was some sort of station wagon. A man was leaning over the engine and fiddling around.

“Papa, look who I have!” Emma yelled.

The man stood up. He was tall, broad shouldered with narrow hips, and he wore some sort of Norwegian sweater and faded jeans. He smiled at his daughter as he wiped his grease-smeared hands on a towel.

Striking features, blond hair, dark-blue eyes . . . any ordinary woman would have found him very attractive. But I was immune to such primitive manly attributes.

After a moment, he noticed me. He didn’t seem at all surprised by my bizarre appearance.

“Salut,” he said. Naturally, he had a deep, soft voice.

“Hello,” I said.

“You’re German?” Now he seemed surprised.

“Yes.” I brushed my damp hair away from my forehead.

“Papa, this is my friend,” Emma said. “She’s sad, because she’s traveling on foot.”

“On foot?” he repeated. “In this weather?”

I wanted to explain, but Emma spoke first. “We have a big car. I promised her that she could come with us.”

“You promised her?”

“No,” I heard myself say. “She was only trying to console me.”

“Aha,” the man said, clearly understanding the situation.

“I lost my bag with my money and documents. But it’ll be sent to me in Geneva. My taxi driver ditched me, and I’m not particularly good at hitchhiking. So I’ve been walking.”

“We can drive her to the airport. Can’t we, Papa?” Emma pled.

“You want to go to Geneva?” the man confirmed.

I nodded. “To the airport.”

“That’s quite a big detour for us, Emma.”

“That’s OK. You said Christmas is in five days. We’ll be back in Berlin in time.”

“You’re from Berlin?” I asked, astonished.

“Yes,” he said. “By the way, my name is David Rottmann. You’ve already met my daughter, Emma.” He extended his hand.