2025-07-10, 01:58 PM
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?”
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?”