Marcel Winatschek

That Night

Sina and I stared at each other for what felt like forever, and my whole body went haywire. My head seemed to explode in colors, my breath caught somewhere behind my ribs. Adrenaline pumped through me like I was having a stroke—that was the only logical conclusion. Where had she come from? Why was she here? And why was she talking to me, after two years of silence, after she’d left me in a minefield of desperation and insomnia and thoughts I won’t name? Hey, I managed, my voice thick, and I cleared my throat and said it again like I was asking a question.

She smiled at me, unmoved and steady, took a sip of wine and tossed the glass over the railing with casual grace. Long time, she slurred. Sina was drunk. And clearly on something. I must have looked disappointed at the thought of a real conversation, because she swayed toward me, put her arms around me, and grinned at me through dilated pupils. Are you okay?

Her apartment wasn’t far from mine. High ceilings, big windows, beautiful old bones. Every room was thoughtful, modern. Pale pastels on the walls, furniture mixing new and old but cohesive. The whole place smelled like vanilla and mango, and the lamps and candles threw everything in a soft romantic light. Photos on the fridge showed her with new friends, new lovers. She was smiling in all of them. I felt sick. I remembered the other scenes—her crying, howling in pain, balanced at the edge. Want some wine? she called from another room, and I heard the most beautiful voice I knew. I nodded, rubbed my face, and said yes.

Why did you just let me go like that? We were lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, covered in spilled wine. I tried to answer properly, but the weed and alcohol had short-circuited my brain, and what came out was rambling—knights and flowers, dresses and bears, hookers and drama. She laughed loud and long at everything I said. Her hair smelled the way it always did, like ice cream and Red Bull and fast food and wildflowers all mixed together. Then she sat up, took my hands, and said: That night, the one that tore us apart—I tried to kill myself.

After that we saw each other again. Coffee, movies, parties. We put our lives back together piece by piece, like a puzzle. Some of it made me smile. Some of it made me wince because it cut through my head. She didn’t say another word about the attempt, but she talked endlessly about sex and love and the hard and soft ways we fell apart. When she asked how things had been for me in that department, I lied. I didn’t mention Paula.

But lies didn’t work between us. We both knew it. From that moment on the balcony, we could read each other like an open book again. Like no time had passed at all, like I hadn’t screamed her name down at her full of tears and spit as she walked away empty and done, disappearing into the U-Bahn. The nightmares, the vodka, the pills—all of it rotted down into the last fragment of the darkest time in my life. When she realized what I was feeling, she held me tighter than before, and tears ran down my neck. It was horrible, she could barely say. Then we slept together and for a while everything was fine.