Bangalu

The bouncer in all white didn’t look like he wanted us there. That expression that said very clearly: beat it, kids, before I walk you to the next train. I almost whined it at him: We’re from Aperto. The moment those words were out, something shifted. His whole face changed, and suddenly he was waving us past like we actually mattered. I grinned at him.

Everything at Bangalu was white. The curtains, the chairs, the staff. A closed party, the kind you don’t just walk into. Our company was celebrating—we’d gotten the ZDF Mediathek project through, and they wanted to mark it properly. Club music somewhere in the walls, the kind that fills the air without demanding attention. Someone was always pressing a drink into your hand. There was food on tables that I never figured out what it was. Huge fish swimming somewhere up on the walls.

Arabella kept sending me for things. Champagne. Dessert. Meatballs. I didn’t mind—being useful made you feel like you actually belonged there. The people above us gave speeches. There’s something about being in a room where things feel important, where you feel a little important just by being there. My boss talked about yoga. Thomas talked about something from school. I said something about meeting with Scholz & Friends the day before. It was a nice evening. Strange and unreal, but nice.

We took the train home. Arabella was quiet, looking at nothing in particular. She said her internship was ending soon, that we should do something sometime. I said yeah, obviously. As I stepped out of the car, I called back: Add me on ICQ. I saw her nod before the doors closed and she was gone. That was a week ago. I haven’t heard from her.