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Man, it's boring again today. I've been wasting away in the local forestry office for hours already and I'm bored to death. The time before Christmas is always a slow time in my department. People only buy plots of land with forest again when they are drawn to the forest to go for a walk or do something else. Especially in spring, I always have a lot to do, deciding on sales license requests. But in winter, and if you're not responsible for Christmas trees, not much happens. I quickly took care of the little paperwork that did exist. And now? You can't just drink coffee and listen to the gossip and scandal of who's sleeping with whom, the deaths, unwanted pregnancies and marital crises of a small town. I'm not particularly interested in that anyway. I prefer to stay in my small office and pretend to be busy.
Luckily, I had bought the latest smartphone in a mini version, with an internet flat rate, of course. At least I can use the time sensibly and visit my favorite sites on the net, which offer enough entertainment. I just shouldn't get caught, that would not only cause gossip among the staff, but also trouble with the boss. But I'm clever enough. Besides, my hearing is good enough to hear the overweight ladies in the department stomping down the aisle. It pays off to have the last office in the row.
So once again I arrange the alibi files on my desk, open one or two of them, add a half-written sheet of paper and a pen, and place my smartphone in front of me. Then I'm ready to go. I have my favorite sites stored in my browser. I quickly check my favorite forum and go to the reading corner. I can't even remember how I found this forum. In any case, I was so taken with the stories there that I myself published a few minor works in the past. So I always follow the news and comments with interest. Today, the call for entries for this year's Advent contest caught my eye. Curious, I took a look at the conditions there. There are supposed to be extra points for certain terms. Hm, that should make for a nice, schmaltzy story. Something along the lines of poor Hartz IV recipient Basti walking around the Christmas market with a potbelly, inhaling the scent of marzipan, cookies and gingerbread, since he can't buy the goodies, and meeting the love of his life under the market's huge Christmas tree, who is carrying an advent wreath she just bought under her arm. Too much of a stretch? Come on, it can't be cheesy enough at Christmas and in the time leading up to it. And anyway, who comes up with such terms? Oh, the moderators? Well, if that's the case... then I won't be so picky.
On the spur of the moment, I start writing an Advent story. Of course, I can't use the PC sitting on my desk for that. Even I'm not that stupid. No, I have to use the traditional method, with pen and paper. I'm happy to take on the effort of typing the whole thing into the PC at home for data protection reasons.
Besides, I have no plans for the evening, or for the evenings in the past and future. I've been living alone since my divorce about half a year ago. It happened quite suddenly that I found myself and the few personal belongings in front of my apartment door and had to find a new place to live. It was all a bit of a mess. Who could have guessed that my ex would return early from a wellness weekend that she wanted to enjoy with one of her stupid friends and surprise me in the marital bed while I was engaged in a rather explicit activity? The fact that I was with a man didn't exactly make our separation any easier. To this day, I still don't understand why she was so upset about it. After all, she knew I was bisexual. She never asked questions when I had to “work in the office” for an unusually long time and still came home in a good mood and relaxed. My little slip-ups couldn't have really escaped her notice. In return, I had always tolerated her need for wellness and never asked who she spent her weekends with. We generally allowed ourselves a certain amount of freedom. And then this happened. I had the impression that she might have forgiven me for having an affair with a woman. You just don't understand women. Fortunately, we don't have any children, so the divorce went quite quickly.
The desire to have children is another matter. I like children and would have liked to have had two or three. It would have given not only our marriage, but also our lives a completely different meaning. We would have been a real family and would certainly still be together today. But my ex didn't want children. They were too loud and too much work for her. Instead, I now have my overprotective mother on my back, who is constantly intruding on my life. Admittedly, it's convenient to have someone clean and do the laundry. I also have nothing against her cooking. Especially now in the run-up to Christmas, I never run out of homemade cookies and gingerbread. To spare my figure, I had to provide my female colleagues with them. They are particularly impressed by the homemade marzipan. My mother even bought the Advent wreath on my living room table and placed it on a Christmas tablecloth. But as nice as it is to be lovingly cared for, it can become a nuisance in the long run. Unfortunately, my mother lacks the necessary distance. In particular, her surprise and disparaging looks have already scared off some overnight guests. She would meet my rebukes with hurt eyes and the silent reproach of ingratitude, which always disarms me and makes me give in. Somehow I have the feeling that she is the only winner of my divorce.
I let out a rather loud sigh. Startled, I listen to see if it was heard. But the soundscape that reaches me does not change. I breathe a sigh of relief and admonish myself to be more careful. Determined, I now set about implementing my plan and continue writing the Advent story.
I had already drafted a few sketches for the story and put the keywords in position when there was a knock on my office door. Surprised by the interruption, I hid what I had written, just quickly enough before the door was opened without being asked. I am slowly feeling annoyed. Is there no decency left at all? At least one “come in” or “yes please” can be waited for. Besides, I don't have to have time for everyone, do I? I look at the door with displeasure. My mood improves the moment I realize that none of my obese colleagues is seeking entry. She lifts up as the office door reveals a – admittedly rather portly – young guy, who immediately locks eyes with me with two dark brown eyes. He is a little shorter than me, wearing one of those down jackets that are currently fashionable and seems a little too big. His brown hair spills out from under a knitted cap and curls slightly. However, I will never understand what is so great about jeans that suggest you have no ass in your pants.
“Hello,” he greets before I am able to close my slightly open mouth.
My slightly slurred facial expressions must have looked a bit foolish, as his cheeky grin reveals.
“Am I disturbing you?”
I urgently need to get myself under control before it gets really embarrassing for me. I quickly close my mouth and my eyes, take a short breath, gather myself and turn to him, now completely professional again. Although all this happens in the shortest possible time, the delay does not go unnoticed by him. His knowing grin deepens. This little devil knows only too well what effect he has. Is he gay? God, what am I thinking? As soon as a customer comes in, young, slim, good-looking, and my thoughts are already focused on the one thing again. Somehow I feel caught and feel the heat rising to my face. The only thing that helps is to take the bull by the horns.
“Excuse me. I wasn't expecting anyone.”
With a welcoming hand gesture, I invite him in. Now he smiles in an almost disarming way. Two cute dimples appear on his pretty face. I can't believe the effect the little guy has on me. Fortunately, I'm sitting down.
“I'm here to see Mr. Schuster.”
Once again, I am impressed by the timbre of his pleasantly dark voice, which wonderfully matches his appearance. But I don't let myself be distracted.
“You've come to the right place.”
He beams. What have I done to deserve that?
“Tom Schuster?” he asks hopefully.
“That's me. What can I do for you?”
He grins.
“A coffee wouldn't be bad.”
What? Cheeky guy. I still can't be angry with him.
“Anything else, maybe some biscuits?”
He grins broadly and nods cheekily.
“Gladly. May I sit down?”
“Of course.”
He takes off his jacket, sits down on the chair right in front of my desk, and looks at me expectantly. He has left his cap on. It suits him, I realize. However, his behavior seems rather strange to me. He is not only overconfident for someone his age. There is more to it, something I don't yet realize and that is beginning to make me feel insecure. I remain defensive for the time being, looking at him kindly and invitingly. He seems to be waiting for something, letting his gaze wander. What's the matter with him, doesn't he even want to start? Well, I'm not starting the conversation. After all, he came to me, not the other way around. I like his game and I have time, lots of time. Any change is welcome, especially when it's as cute as the one in front of me. He's still silent, turns to me again. I can't quite interpret his look, and start brooding. Slowly, I get the feeling that I have forgotten something.
“Ah yes, the coffee,“ I remember.
“And the biscuits,” he adds.
The little guy is pretty cool, I'm kind of impressed. Smiling, I go to the kitchen to get what he wants and also take a cup. It's the fourth today. I urgently need to cut down on my coffee consumption. But not today. Back in my office, I place one of the cups on his desk in front of him. I take the tin of Christmas biscuits my mother baked out of the cupboard and put it next to the cup.
“Thank you.”
He takes a sip from the cup and then reaches for a Florentine without hesitation.
“Good,“ he says, praising it, and then takes another one.
“I'm glad,” I reply and decide to remain on the defensive. It's fun to see how much he likes it. My mother would be thrilled.
“Do you know a Manuela Huhn?” he suddenly addresses me.
Puzzled, I look up from the box of biscuits that I am about to take a vanilla croissant from. Of course I recognize the name despite the many years, how could I not? But what does this boy have to do with Manuela?
“Who wants to know?“ I dodge for now.
“I'm her son. Sebastian. You can call me Basti,” he introduces himself.
Well, that's a surprise. Pleased, I take his outstretched hand and return the pleasantly firm handshake.
“Of course I know Manuela,” I now admit.
Now that he mentions it, I can see the similarity between him and his mother. They have the same dark hair and eyes, long eyelashes, open smile and pretty face. It's amazing how similar they look. I look at Basti kindly.
“It was a long time ago. How is she?”
“She died half a year ago.”
Shocked, I stop moving and stare at him. It takes me quite a while to process the meaning of the words and to pull myself together.
“Oh. I'm sorry.”
I really am. I liked Manuela.
“Thanks. I'm slowly getting over it.”
Somehow I don't really believe him. He could have called to give me this news. He must have seen the doubt in my eyes.
“It's hard without her,” he adds quietly.
“And you... who are you with now?”
I switched to the familiar ‘you’ as a matter of course. He doesn't comment on it.
“Stepfather,“ he replies curtly.
Uh-oh, that doesn't sound so good.
“Problems?”
“It's a pain in the ass.”
Just as I thought. I take a deep breath. Manuela is dead, the pretty, fun-loving Manu. I can't believe it.
“Did you know each other well?” he pulls me out of my gloomy thoughts.
“What? Uh... like I said, it was a long time ago. And we only knew each other for a short time.”
“Were you together?”
I'm not sure if it's any of his business what my connection to Manu was.
“You mean, were we a couple?” I hesitate in my reply.
Basti nods and looks at me intently. I realize that he will know if I'm lying. And why shouldn't he know the truth?
“No. We weren't a couple. She already had a boyfriend back then. Peter.”
Basti seemed disappointed.
“How did you even find out about me?” I try to deflect.
“I found letters from you to my mother.”
God, how embarrassing. Now I'm sure my face is red. We were pretty open back then and Manu loved to address things directly. I clear my throat embarrassedly.
“It wasn't easy to find you,” he continues, unmoved, reaching for another cookie.
I only notice it peripherally. I am too preoccupied with the pressing question of why. I also have a queasy feeling in my stomach and I'm not sure if I want to hear the answer. But Basti suddenly looks at me firmly, almost challengingly.
“I wanted to meet my father.”
There was the answer I feared. For a few minutes we look at each other silently, sizing each other up, waiting for some kind of reaction. Could it be possible? Could he be my son? I try to find something that might indicate my paternity. But I don't recognize anything of me. Basti looks too much like his mother, there's not much room for anything else.
“You seem pretty sure about that,” I remark.
My throat feels parched. The rest of the coffee that I gulp down doesn't really help. A little too hastily, I get up and get a bottle of water from my cupboard. As I fill my glass, I notice that my hand is shaking slightly. Basti hasn't taken his eyes off me the whole time.
“Do you want some?” I try to keep my composure.
“No, thanks.”
I let myself fall back into my office chair with a groan and take a big gulp. I slowly calm down and look at Sebastian again. He takes it as an invitation to press me on the subject.
“According to the letters... Well, what they wrote...”
He seems to be a little embarrassed now after all. Ok, what teenager likes to imagine that their parents, even if only their presumed parents, were young once? Besides, the situation here is quite bizarre. I have to grin. The little guy wasn't as cool as he acted. He looks at me, waiting for my confession, somehow hoping. Since he knows the content of the letters, he already knows the answer. So why deny it?
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
I do a quick calculation. When was that again?
“It's possible,” I admit, breathing deeply.
I'm surprised to find that I don't really mind if I were his father. It has a certain appeal. And Basti seems like a good guy, someone to be proud of.
“Did you love my mother?”
I can see the romantic hope in his eyes, an ideal image, since things with his stepfather don't seem so ideal.
“Honestly, no,” I destroy the illusion. ”I liked her very much, but Manu, your mother, loved her Peter more than anything. Besides, we were only at the summer camp for two weeks. Too short to deepen anything.”
“What was with this Peter? I didn't really understand it from the letters.”
It was clear that this detail hadn't escaped him and he wanted to know exactly. The only question is whether I want to talk about it. It's not something I should be ashamed of. And yet I am a little embarrassed. Above all, I don't know how Basti will react to it.
“He was also at the camp.”
Sebastian stops short, but then presses on.
“I think she and... my mother...”
“Well,” I dodge. ”Peter didn't mind.”
I'm relieved to see that Basti is not disgusted. Rather, I see the question marks in his eyes, the unbiased curiosity. However, I hardly think that he understands the implications of what I'm saying.
“Cool.”
Cool? Okay, somehow it was pretty crazy back then. I look at Basti and realize that I was only two years older than he was at the time. Despite the passage of time, I still remember everything well.
Somehow I had let myself be persuaded to go to this camp as a supervisor for the children who wanted to spend their vacation at the seaside. I had no idea what to expect there. But since there were older supervisors who I was only supposed to support, I wasn't really worried about whether I would be able to cope. I met Manuela and her friend Peter at the camp. They were three years older than me and not there for the first time as supervisors. We hit it off right away and they took me under their wing. Manu was very popular with the kids, especially the older ones among them really liked her. No wonder, because Manu was not only beautiful, she also had a sunny disposition and was always cheerful. You just had to like her. I soon succumbed to her charm. And Manu also showed me again and again that she liked me. The way she kept smiling at me, touching me at every opportunity, hugging me, running her blonde hair through my fingers, was pretty obvious. Because of her, I started having wet dreams again. Surprisingly, Peter didn't mind Manu's familiarity; he seemed to enjoy it. I was just too naive to worry about everything, and I enjoyed Manu's affection for me.
On our penultimate night at the camp, it happened. Peter was in charge and had to deal with the kids who never seemed to need sleep and only had mischief on their minds. After the evening hours together, when the counselors discussed the farewell party for the children, I went to the counselors' accommodations with Manu. Probably I would have been shy as I was then, quickly retreated back to my room, if not Manu had taken my hand and pulled me into her room, which she shared with Peter. I was pretty excited and couldn't think straight. But Manu, who knew exactly what she wanted, had taken over the thinking for me. I quickly found myself lying on my back on the wide bed with Manu on top of me, who immediately started kissing me passionately. At first I was still surprised, but then I quickly got involved in her game. We frantically tore our clothes off, touched and kissed each other, impatient and ravenous. I had completely blocked out my surroundings and was fixated on the hot body above me, which was making my blood boil. I had been hard since the first kiss. Panting, I rubbed against Manu, greedily taking possession of her with my hands and letting her feel how horny I was for her. I was so lost in the moment that I didn't notice the room door open and an angry Peter yanking Manu off of me. Unable to react to the new situation, I suddenly saw Peter above me, with wide-open eyes from the shock, who grimly pinned me to the bed and choked me. My counterattack, which finally began, was just as futile as Manu's wordy attempts to pull Peter off me. I was all the more astonished when Peter suddenly paused and approached my face with a nasty grin. I was much too perplexed to be able to defend myself against his rough kiss. This did not change even when Manu pushed Peter energetically away, only to plunder my mouth in his place. Their greedy competition gave me a sleepless night, which not only robbed me of any kind of virginity, but should never be repeated in such an intense way. The next morning, I was not only exhausted and drained, I also felt a burning pain that made walking and sitting a torture. I was also completely satisfied for the first time and at the same time aware of the complexity of my sexual interest.
But I'm not telling Basti any of this. It's bad enough that we didn't protect ourselves back then, even though everyone was talking about AIDS and I hadn't thought about whether Manu was using contraception. Besides, I didn't have to tell the little one point-blank that I also like guys. Well, as far as the infection was concerned, I was lucky, and in the other matter... well, we'll see. The possibility that my son was sitting in front of me was not frightening to me. In any case, I would not shirk responsibility, I am sure of that. That's why I can answer his question of whether I'm willing to take a paternity test with a clear conscience. Two bright eyes are the reward for my quick answer and for asking him to use the informal “du” form of address. Sebastian would obviously not be opposed to my paternity either. After some back and forth about when and where the test should be done, I look at my watch and realize that my core working hours are over. My suggestion to spend the time until his train leaves at the local Christmas market is fine with Sebastian. So I pack up, put the alibi files back in the desk and off we go.
Our sleepy little town doesn't have a big Christmas market; everything is very tranquil and manageable. The market is located in the middle of the city on the square where the weekly market is held all year round. Houses line it and create a tranquil backdrop. Of course, a rather large Christmas tree is the centerpiece of the market, with individual alleys leading between the stalls. I make a beeline for one of the stalls and buy us a white mulled wine each. We stand at one of the bar tables, warm our hands on the hot cups and sip our wine with relish. I ask Basti a few questions, want to know what he's like at school, what his hobbies are, what his friends are up to. I just feel the need to get to know him better. I really like the open way he talks and I'm sure we would get along well. When the subject of his stepfather comes up, Basti reacts a little cautiously, but then talks about the daily friction, which has probably increased since the stepfather became unemployed and is at home a lot. I try to make him understand that unemployment is certainly not a pleasant situation and that it's easy to get annoyed, but Basti plays it down.
“Oh, he's just too lazy to look for something new and prefers to rest on his Hartz IV.”
“Aren't you being a little harsh in your judgment?” I object.
“Nah. He just hangs around all day. When I'm at school, he snoops through my stuff. I can't do anything right for him. He'd love it best if I moved out and found my own place.”
I say nothing. Basti looks over at me uncertainly.
“Does it bother you that I'm trying to find my father for that reason, too?” he asks quietly.
I take a deep gulp of mulled wine. Then I shake my head.
“No. I understand.”
Basti looks relieved.
“Would you have searched if everything had been okay at home?“ I want to know after all.
“Yes,” he answers promptly. “Maybe later, but definitely at some point.”
Now I feel somehow relieved. I wouldn't have liked myself as a stopgap. As time is passing, we head towards the train station. Basti has become quiet. Something is bothering him, I can see that in his face. Finally, we are standing on the platform. There is still some time before the train will arrive.
“There is something else you need to know,” he finally brings himself to say.
Involuntarily, I tense up a bit. Hopefully he doesn't have any major problems. I don't joke around when it comes to drugs, for example. I look at him expectantly and see his insecurity.
“Spit it out. It won't be that bad,“ I encourage him.
“Well, maybe you don't want to take the test after all,” he mumbles and suddenly turns red.
“Let me decide that.”
Basti takes a deep breath. Then he stretches.
“Ok. So... I'm gay.”
A weight has been lifted from my heart. If only it's just that... And I'm proud of him for telling me at this point in time. Not that it would have changed my decision. But this way he shows me that he is serious about me. He looks at me uncertainly.
“Well?” I want to know and have to laugh at Basti's bewildered look. ‘That's all?”
He nods, smiles timidly.
“It doesn't bother me,’ I assure him.
How could it? I'm bi, after all. But I don't tell him that. Not yet. I want to see how the whole thing develops. For now, he approaches me and, with a sigh of relief, wraps his arms around me. I pull him close and stroke his back.
“I would be happy if the test were positive,” I murmur in his ear.
“Me too,” he sniffs quietly.
We only part ways when the train pulls in. Basti seems embarrassed by his emotional outburst. Maybe it's also the looks we've attracted that make him get on quickly. I watch as he finds a seat and wave back at me. I watch the departing train with a little sadness. I've already taken the little one into my heart. And I promise us that I will definitely take care of him.