Add Me on ICQ

The bouncer was dressed head to toe in white, and the look he gave us at the door said exactly what he meant: get lost, kids, before I drag you to the nearest subway entrance. I almost whimpered our company name at him. That was apparently the password. His face cracked into something warmer, he stepped aside, and he waved us graciously onto the red carpet like we were guests of honor. I grinned at him the whole way in.

Everything inside the Bangaluu was white—the curtains, the armchairs, most of the staff. A closed party celebrating our agency’s successful launch of a major public broadcaster’s streaming platform. Chill-out club music floated through the air. Drinks appeared without asking. There was a buffet I loaded a plate from without knowing what half of it was. Enormous fish drifted slowly across the walls in projection.

Arabella kept dispatching me across the room for things—champagne, dessert, meatballs. I went every time, because I’m apparently that kind of man. Senior colleagues stood up and made speeches. I had this warm, slightly disorienting feeling of being present at something that mattered, which for a moment made me feel like I mattered too. My boss talked about her yoga classes, Thomas talked about school, I told them about our upcoming meeting with Scholz & Friends. It was a lovely evening—somehow unreal, but lovely.

On the U-Bahn home, Arabella looked at me with quiet sadness. Her internship was nearly done. After that, we wouldn’t see each other. She said we’d have to do something together sometime. I agreed. When I jumped off at my stop, I shouted back through the closing doors: Add me on ICQ! I saw her nodding just before the train pulled her away.

That was a week ago. She never wrote.