Tears on Your Face
She was sitting in the middle of Alexanderplatz when I first saw her—huddled and unwashed, her hair greasy and matted. Behind a cardboard sign with shaky handwriting was something that went straight into my chest: I’m homesick. Please give me money for a ticket home.
I sat a few meters away on some steps and watched her.
She was crying. People walked past without looking, avoided her, treated her like garbage. Spring hadn’t really arrived and it was getting dark. I couldn’t stand watching it anymore, got up and walked slowly toward her. Come on. I’ll buy you something to eat.
At first she wouldn’t listen, resisted my help, resisted me. Then she lowered her defenses. She stood up, pushed a strand of hair back with long fingers, and walked beside me with careful distance between us.
I’m Sina,
she muttered, shoving a huge bite of cheeseburger into her mouth. I found it disgusting. Why do you look like that?
While I waited for an answer and wondered increasingly why I’d brought this gross little thing anywhere at all, my thoughts took a detour into Berlin’s nightlife. I could have given in to my desires, my feelings, my thoughts right then—could have checked out, escaped to some cheap emo’s place in my enormous apartment.
She didn’t miss my wide grin. She started spilling stories to pull my attention back to herself. Paula and I ran away from home. She’s my best friend.
She nearly choked, took a long sip of cola. I felt sick. From how she carried herself, the smacking sounds, that disgusting smell. I went to the bathroom at the train station and when I came back she was gone. With my backpack, my phone, my money. That stupid bitch.
A tear slid down her freckled face. Something flickered in me—pity. Now I remembered why I’d ended up in this godforsaken place with her, and I smiled and ordered two more meals. We talked all night. She told me about her horrible family, her stupid ex-boyfriend, school, the feeling of not knowing where she belonged. Berlin was her last chance to get her life together. I knew that feeling too well.
I fed her some bullshit about working as a party photographer and wondering how I’d managed to make so much money doing something so un-Christian. I didn’t mention the drugs, the excess, the prostitutes who came and went from my place, but I told her my father didn’t take me seriously, my first love slept with my two best friends, and I’d been in prison once. That remained my secret for now.
If you want, you can stay at my place tonight and tomorrow I’ll buy you a ticket home.
She looked confused. Why would you do that? Why would I?
I don’t know. I have money and you need money. I was raised Catholic. All that stuff about sharing and loving your neighbor and bullshit like that.
Fine. But don’t touch me.
Suddenly she was a cat—all teeth and claws, that look of mistrust, fear, self-protection.
I liked the strength that radiated from her, all that hurt and inner power. In those glittering blue eyes I saw myself looking back, before I’d lost the fun in all of this. Voices of many ghosts came over me as we finally kissed under the weak light of the streetlamp. She was pale, ignorant, clueless, her whole being so full of pain and strength. That was the most beautiful part of it all.
We were at it all night. In bed, on the table, against the wall. And the next morning she didn’t want to leave anymore. I tolerated her presence the way I did my house cat. My little monkey. And I led her step by step into my world, which seemed to give her more happiness after just a short time than it had ever managed to give me.