East Girls

I’m digging through my pockets, my wallet, my backpack. Need some change. I’m starving for a kebab from my place—the good spot with the herbs and garlic. Don’t care if I smell like it. No one has to smell me today anyway.

This blonde woman comes toward me on the street and I lock her eyes. Just to see what she does. My coworker Kathi’s big on eyes—she could stare into them all day. That’s not what I’m doing. I want to watch the other person’s move. Do they look away? Down? Hold it? This one drops at the last second. I shift to her nose. My brain just names it: Ostmädchen.

It’s turned into this thing I do in Berlin now. What else is a straight guy supposed to do? Look at women. Study interesting people. Everyone else gets royal indifference or I just didn’t see them. Ostmädchen have these small noses, turned up slightly, usually open pores and freckles. West girls have noses that run flat, long with sharp nostrils. Unless they’re tilting them up at the sky to prove they’re not from the East.

Can you even tell that way? Am I just generalizing? Should I worry about sparking the whole East-West thing again? Is this racist? Ana had an even more pronounced East nose and she was from Kazakhstan. I’m trying to work through it, already imagining myself explaining it somewhere, and then my brain just stops. My hand finds the secret pocket. Two fifty. Perfect.

One to go. The girl next to me’s waiting for her order too. She’s looking at the kebab guy with this dismissive, stuck-up look. My brain just can’t help it: Westmädchen.