Marcel Winatschek

Fat Moon Over Irsingen

Friday night, the sky was doing something genuinely beautiful—black scraps of cloud against deep blue, a fat round moon throwing light down on a youth center in Irsingen where Bianca and Mandy were having their birthday party. The atmosphere had no business being that cinematic for what it was.

Before all that I’d beaten everyone at Super Smash Bros. Melee, which put me in the right frame of mind. André, Kevin and I drove over to Bad Wörishofen first to pick up Lisa, the whole ride blasting Rammstein at full volume.

We arrived late—the cool ones always do. Half the room was already wrecked. I paid three euros at the door and a dark-haired girl stamped my hand in a way that almost justified the cover charge. Straight to the bar. I was not going to let Ana win the race to the bottom, though two other people had already lapped us both, names withheld.

The music was bad. I don’t remember it well but I can still hear the Backstreet Boys somewhere in there, which tells me everything. I sat on a couch with a stolen bottle of sangria and watched Cindy dance—who is not nearly as small as I remember her. Good night, all things considered. Ana had maximum fun.