My Name Is Sina
Close friends describe me as a stubborn little thing who can fall hard into obsessions—people, hobbies, ideas—with the sudden force of a summer storm, and drop them just as quickly out of boredom. In my short life there are very few scenarios that give me any real, marrow-deep fear. But a few do exist.
The worst is becoming wealthier than my father. Because in my head it has been established beyond any reasonable doubt: money is the reason that idiot spends his life jetting between world capitals with a revolving army of blonde, anorexic secretaries no older than I am, while his actual family consistently draws the short straw. That he’s sleeping with at least half of these soulless Barbie dolls is something my mother doesn’t know. Maybe doesn’t want to.
I also have an uncontrollable fear of small children. I don’t know how to talk to them, I don’t know what to do with them, and I cannot process the fact that eight-year-old gnomes in oversized jeans will either call me a slut or grab my ass at the bus stop—and then, if you raise a hand to them, suddenly burst into tears and summon their bull of a father, who tears you apart with a look that’s equal parts revulsion and slobbering desire. Thanks for the lovely morning.
But what frightens me most, truly most of all, is the thought that a badly timed dive at the swimming pool or the Stollensee might send my bikini flying. That happened to my best friend Paula last summer. Now the whole school knows she has the biggest breasts and the ugliest nipples anyone has ever seen. And it’s not just the precocious little cows from year five who find this endlessly hilarious—Johnny, self-appointed village idiot and a strong contender for tabloid reader of the year, never misses a chance to bring it up.
Although at this particular moment Johnny was mostly occupied with riding me, making disgusting grunting noises, and very nearly falling off the bed in his failed attempt to fuck me and finger me at the same time. He gave up on the multitasking. Which was really the better decision for both of us.
Better, because he was just slamming around on my stomach like a broken appliance anyway. At least I didn’t have to look him in the eyes during his very personal re-enactment of the Second World War, so I turned my face toward the open window, watched the park, and thought about the important questions.
Whether Paula had forgotten the history presentation Herr Dächler had dumped on her. How many other women were on all fours at this exact moment, counting clouds. Whether I should finally use my Douglas voucher today.
There was a new Calvin Klein fragrance that smelled of vanilla and raspberry and combined beautifully with my own smell—I needed it badly. Turn around, you filthy thing,
came from behind, and before I knew it I was on my back and Johnny’s miniature excuse for a cock was steering purposefully toward my face.
The thought of going to Berlin—to overturn my life completely and finally figure out what I actually wanted from it—came to me a few minutes after this liquid conclusion, in Johnny’s grimy bathroom.
I’d just rinsed my face with warm water and reached for the towel when I accidentally looked directly into my own eyes. They stared back with something close to contempt. Slowly I examined my face, while from the living room the post-romantic sounds of Rammstein drifted through. The smell of marijuana reached me.
And in that moment it was clear: I was more than just a small redheaded girl whose pretty face served primarily as a sperm graveyard. I had character. I was seriously fucking creative. I was something. And I had great tits. Armed with this realization, I walked into the living room, grabbed my clothes, ran past Johnny with a loud Adios, you wanker!
and stumbled, relieved, out the door into the courtyard.
The deaf-mute elderly couple sitting on the green bench by the wall seemed to enjoy my outdoor performance. I took my time getting dressed. I pulled a cigarette from my pocket, lit it, and headed for the bus station. And God help any gnome loitering there.