Marcel Winatschek

Free Netflix

Someone mentioned a Netflix party. We had a car and nothing better to do, so we went. This was the advantage of living with people who got invited places—no convincing required.

The Komische Oper had been converted into a prison cafeteria. Orange Is The New Black theme, House of Cards cocktails, the usual marketing machinery. I saw Jan Böhmermann. Taylor Schilling was somewhere in the crowd. Other faces, names I didn’t catch and wouldn’t have kept anyway. The party was pleasant and immediately forgettable.

Then someone handed me a box on the way out. Free Netflix subscription, which I accepted thinking it was a gift until I realized it was a trap.

We got home and stopped leaving. Days became a loop of screens: BoJack Horseman, Orange Is The New Black, Lie to Me, something else I’ve forgotten. The apartment was dark. We ate at the couch. This is what Netflix actually sold us—not entertainment, not the free month, but this specific moment right here, the one where you stop trying to leave and accept that you’re going to be here for a while.