What the Cosmopolitan Said
The headline was a lie, obviously—clickbait from a sick man who needed something better than "I have a cold" as a post title.
The weekend belonged to Ana and me. Shopping, the hairdresser, a long walk, chocolate, a talent show on TV, and then Andrés birthday party at the Landsberg youth center on Sunday night. I’d served as unofficial music consultant and put together a solid list: Muse, The Killers, The Subways, Bloc Party, (+44), Sum 41, The Strokes. The DJ ignored every suggestion and played 90s techno back to back all night. Congratulations. I also couldn’t drink because I’d driven, so I spent the evening trying to look cool while nursing a bottle of mineral water. The effort convinced no one.
Bene got drunk and delivered a rambling sermon about the chaos of female emancipation. I mixed Ana one revolting cocktail after another until our improvised pouring vessel was pitch black inside. I finally ran into Silvi again—sweet as ever, perpetually scattered, always somehow a surprise when she shows up. André spent the night pointing his new digicam at every contour in the room. A decent enough evening with no real peak. André—I want a lake party with a bonfire this summer. That’s a promise.
On Saturday, while Ana and I sat at the hairdresser for over an hour, I burned through a miniature Mac magazine and then faced a choice between car magazines and a very old copy of Cosmopolitan with Lena Gercke on the cover. I went with the Cosmopolitan. There was an article about friendship between men and women: these friendships exist everywhere, the piece argued, but always carry an erotic tension underneath—and if you act on it, the whole thing collapses. Can men and women actually be friends? Does sleeping together destroy whatever the foundation was? You can probably guess which of the two magazines on that rack ran that piece.