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The list of those I would most like to shoot into space, preferably without a spacesuit, top 3:
3. Ms. Sina Palm - my landlady, who constantly lurks around the house as if she expects me to burn it down, blow it up, paint it pink or do something similarly terrible to it at any moment. Since I once chased her out of my garden very forcefully, we have been at loggerheads.
2. Doctor Friedrich Lodenberg – my father, who never tires of emphasizing how incredibly disappointed he is in me. Since I quit my law studies, I am just as worthless in his eyes as all the jobs I change are like other people's underwear.
1. Alasdair Landon – my brother's best friend and my neighbor. He's gay, stubborn and arrogant. All of these are traits that I don't particularly like – and I'll be damned if I'm going to hide it! I'd much rather just ignore the guy, but unfortunately for me, that's almost impossible.
Until now, Alasdair was in fourth place on my list of the unloved, but that has just changed with a loud bang. The bang that accompanied the impact of a half-full beer bottle on my beloved garden table. I storm angrily onto the terrace and throw deadly glances at the balcony above me. “Hey, you completely stupid morons!” I yell against the party noise. Because the purest orgy is taking place above me, organized by my oh-so-highly esteemed neighbor. ‘This is a damn expensive table, you assholes!’ It actually only cost fifteen euros, but these idiots don't need to know that.
A face framed by dark hair leaned over the balcony railing. Alasdair. “The table only cost fifteen euros,” he stated coolly.
Damn it. I hate that guy! “And so you think you can use him as a garbage can?” I spat.
“I had nothing to do with the whole thing. Besides, it was probably an accident, so don't get so worked up.”
“This is your damn party, so you're damn right you have something to do with it!”
Alasdair sighs as if I were a defiant child and he were the long-suffering father. “All right,” he says. “I'll ask my guests not to throw beer bottles at you anymore.”
“And that's it?!“ I ignore the attempt to turn the situation into a joke.
“Of course not. I will identify the culprit, whip him, and ultimately force him to beg you for forgiveness by kissing your feet.” Alasdair gives me a look of forbidden innocence that makes me want to slap it off his face.
“Fuck you, asshole!” I snap and storm back to my apartment. The patio door slams shut behind me with a loud crash.
Ten minutes later, there is a knock on my front door. In the meantime, my mood has changed from “pretty angry” to “extremely angry”. The loud music and the noise of the party guests are constantly getting on my nerves. I open the door with some force and see my brother Lars standing there.
He stares at me in shock, but then immediately regains his composure. “Hey, little brother. I heard there was a little accident with a beer bottle.”
“What's it to you?” I actually like Lars, but right now I'd kick even Mother Teresa out into the street.
“I just wanted to make sure you're okay.”
“Shouldn't you be one floor up, drinking away the last of your sanity with your best friend and all the other idiots? Yelling? Raging a little?”
“Well, well. You're in a really great mood.”
Before I can say something that would certainly not have been friendly, I hear a clearing of the throat and Alasdair appears next to my brother. He must have been standing next to the door against the wall, so I couldn't see him.
I grab the door and slam it in front of them. Or rather, I almost do it. Alasdair intercepts the door and pushes it open again. He is bigger and stronger than me, so I don't even try to stop him. Instead, I fold my arms across my chest, position myself in front of the entrance like a grim guard, and glare darkly at Alasdair. In my mind, I picture strangling him. “Get out!”
“Not until I've apologized.”
“I couldn't give a damn about your apologies!”
“Didn't you just tell me a few minutes ago that you wanted an apology?”
“Didn't you claim a few minutes ago that you had nothing to do with it?”
“Oh, come on, Tom. Do we always have to argue? I apologize and you stop killing me in your thoughts. How about it?”
I stubbornly stick out my chin and size him up with narrowed eyes. Why did my brother have to become friends with this guy? I've hated Alasdair from the moment I met him. But since he and Lars realized how incredibly well they get along, I have to deal with his presence all the time. Even in my own four walls, I'm no longer safe, since Lars and I share the ground floor of the house.
“How about you crawl under the nearest bush and die there?” I reply, taking a threatening step towards him. He remains unmoved, raising only one eyebrow in a mocking gesture that always infuriates me. My hands clench into fists.
Alasdair watches me closely. “Are you going to hit me?” Again that raised eyebrow, again that mocking undertone.
“I'm not a brainless oaf who can only get his way with violence!” I hiss, my hands still clenched into fists.
“Well, I'm curious. How do you get your way then?”
Before I can answer, an arm comes around Alasdair's waist from behind and pulls him back. Simon. Alasdair's friend. Or current bed bunny. Or whatever. Do all the party guests want to gather in front of my door one by one? Do I have a tasty portion of rat poison hidden somewhere in the depths of my cupboards?
“You left me all alone up there,” the bunny whines.
Alasdair strokes his hair and kisses him on the mouth. ‘I'll be right there, sweetie.”
Immediately, Simon switches from whiny to erotic, or at least to what he thinks is erotic, and breathes, ’Oh yes, I like it when you come.”
I feel sick on the spot. For the second time that evening, I slam a door shut.
In the middle of the night, something wakes me up. In a remarkable mixture of disorientation and annoyance, I let my gaze wander around the room. It's dark. Of course. What else would it be at this time of night? And it's quiet. Very quiet. Obviously, even the last party guests have now drunk themselves into a coma. Or passed out in sheer joy at being able to enjoy the company of the great Alasdair. Whatever, I couldn't care less. As long as I have my peace.
But if it is dark and so quiet, what woke me up?
For some unfathomable reason, I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. Even more, all at once my hair is literally standing on end.
A touch of panic makes me freeze. I can't move a millimeter, even though everything inside me is screaming to jump up and run away.
What the hell is this again? Did I spontaneously lose my mind overnight? Little children are afraid of the dark. I certainly am not.
At least that's what I thought.
In my mind, I walk the path from my bed to the light switch. Actually, it's only three steps. A ridiculously small distance that suddenly seems infinitely large to me. As if I had to cross a dark forest full of dark figures.
I laugh. An ugly, strange sound.
Then suddenly I hear something else. A scraping sound, as if something big is creeping along very carefully and slowly. My breath catches in my throat. I listen almost compulsively, but at the same time I want to cover my ears.
A kind of soft whistling joins the scraping. Or rather – breathing.
Just a moment ago, these sounds were not there at all, but now they are mercilessly intruding on me. Scratching – inhaling – scratching – exhaling – scratching – inhaling...
This can only be a dream, I realize. Even if it is a pretty realistic one.
This realization should actually be followed by relief, but nothing of the sort happens. Instead, I watch with growing horror as the darkness in front of me thickens, as if all the darkness in the world were gathering in front of my bed. My whole body is shaking miserably.
“Damn it, don't be like that,” I say to myself and realize that my voice is shaking too. It's just ridiculous.
The concentrated darkness comes closer, climbs over the edge of my bed, and takes over the blanket just in front of my feet. It devours it with a huge black maw. I can't help but wonder what will happen when the darkness reaches my body. I want to jump up, but I still can't move.
Like a hypnotized rabbit about to be swallowed by a snake. The thought is meant to be mocking, but it has a completely different effect on me. A scream of fear escapes from my throat.
Very loud and very piercing.
Damn, I hope I only screamed in my dream. It would be too embarrassing if someone had heard it.
The darkness is now so close to my big toe that a sheet of paper wouldn't fit in the space between. My breathing is racing and I feel drops of sweat on my forehead.
Then, completely out of the blue, the nightmare is suddenly over. No shuffling, no strange breathing, no abnormal darkness. My paralysis disappears and I jump up. Much too fast and much too violently. My feet get tangled in my bedspread, the yielding mattress offers little secure support. For a brief moment, I hang in the air, arms flailing wildly, then I fall off the bed.
A sudden pain shoots through my left hand.
“Shit! Damn!”
My swearing is followed by a loud rumble. This time not from my room, but from the one above mine. Alasdair's bedroom, as I know from painful experience. More than once I've been able to listen to the bastard during his sex games. Experiences I would have gladly done without.
Is he up there again? Or is he trying to tell me to be quiet? If so, he would deserve a good beating for it...
I refrain from swearing loudly again. Not out of consideration, but because I don't want to admit that I fell out of bed the next morning.
But that's exactly what will have happened to him.
This thought brings a smile to my face.
A little later, I am fast asleep again.
The next morning, still half asleep, I drag myself into the kitchen and am not pleased to find not only my brother there, but also Alasdair. This is unusual for three reasons. Firstly, I am not a late riser and am normally fit and well after getting up. Secondly, my brother never gets out of bed early at the weekend and, thirdly, Alasdair certainly doesn't.
I ignore them both and go straight to the kitchenette to get a glass from the cupboard. A sharp pain shoots through my right wrist as I open the door. I must have sprained it during the night.
“Coffee's on the table,” Alasdair says.
“Fascinating.” Carefully, not to put too much strain on my aching wrist, I pour myself an orange juice, keeping my back to the two of them.
“You look tired, little brother.”
What impressive powers of observation. I say my thoughts out loud and Lars answers with a laugh. He never holds it against me when I make snappy comments. Probably because he knows that I actually like him a lot. Which, of course, I would never openly admit.
“Did you sleep badly?” Alasdair asks, as if it were any of his business.
I remain silent.
“Or did you dream something bad and fall out of bed in fright?” he asks, proving that he has not failed to notice the noises coming from my bedroom.
I turn to him abruptly, spilling orange juice on the floor. ”Shit!”
While I clean up the mess with a damp kitchen towel, I avoid Alasdair's intense gaze. Two things worry me in a way that is hard to put my finger on. There is an expression on his face as if he knows something that I am unaware of. Something sinister. In addition, I suddenly notice the fascinating contrast between the strong blue of his eyes and his dark hair. What the hell do I care about the eyes of this asshole?
Guided by a sudden urge, I go to the kitchen table where Alasdair and Lars are sitting and wring out the orange juice-soaked cloth over Alasdair's head. Two pairs of eyes stare at me in complete disbelief.
“Uh... little brother...?”
“Well, Tommy...“ Alasdair uses the pet name I hate so much. ‘...if you think I should take a shower, you could just say so.’ He gets up and walks towards the kitchen.
“As if a shower would change your stench!” I spit at him and feel an aggressiveness in me that goes beyond the normal level. I fix Lars with burning eyes. “Do you always have to let this guy into our apartment? Can't you, damn it, meet at his place? Or even better, at the nearest dump?” I feel Alasdair moving behind my back and try to ignore him as best I can.
“Do you think that's a good idea?” asks Lars.
“Huh...? What...” I can't get any further. Alasdair is emptying the rest of the orange juice from the Tetra Pak over my head. At first I'm speechless. Then I'm overcome with rage. I turn around, punching at his face with my clenched fist. But Alasdair easily dodges me. I curse, punch again, and again I only hit air. “Fucking arsehole!” This time I aim for his stomach. He brushes my arm aside with a casual movement.
“Come on, Tom. Stop it. You're acting like a madman.”
His words only fuel my anger. But no matter how hard I try to hit or kick him, I just can't do it. Not only is the guy strong, he's fast too.
At some point, he has enough. Before I can react, he is standing behind me, effortlessly grabs my arm out of thin air, twists it behind my back and forces me onto my tiptoes.
“So, now what?”
I feel his breath on my ear as he speaks. Every hair on my body stands on end and I try in vain to free myself from his grip.
“Are you going to calm down now?” Alasdair asks again.
I bare my teeth. ‘Let me go and you'll see.”
“We can stand here all day if you like. I don't mind.’ Alasdair tightens his grip on my joints a little. It doesn't really hurt – he'd have to be much more brutal than this – but it's not pleasant either.
Once again, I push against the handle. Unsuccessfully. “It was obvious that you enjoy this kind of thing,” I hiss. All at once, I become very aware of how close our bodies are. Panic rises up inside me. “Let me go!”
“Only if you promise to be peaceful.”
“I'm not promising you anything, asshole!”
“Well, in that case...” His breath brushes my cheek, which almost drives me crazy.
“Is your little friend so bad in bed that you have to snuggle up to me?” I put as much venom into my voice as possible. ”I can definitely think of better ways to spend an evening than being pawed by a damn gay!”
“First of all, I'm not pawing you, secondly, my friend is neither small nor bad in bed, and thirdly, are you sure about that?”
I can almost feel Alasdair's grin.
Anger is raging inside me, along with another, more elusive feeling. Suddenly I feel sick. Very sick. Did I hit my head when I fell out of bed? And have I overwhelmed my body with all this tussling?
“That's enough, Alasdair. Leave him alone,” Lars interjects. His voice has the calm determination for which I have so often secretly envied him. And indeed, Alasdair wordlessly releases the grip on my arm, goes back to the kitchen table and takes a big gulp of coffee. He looks at me over the edge of his cup.
I just look back, stand frozen for a moment, my mind a complete blank. Then I storm into the bathroom and throw up.
There's a knock at the bathroom door. “Are you okay?” It's Lars.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Having to deal with Alasdair again would be too much. My fingers glide absentmindedly over the cool tiles and rough grout of the floor I'm sitting on.
“Can I come in?” Lars asks. When he doesn't get an answer, he carefully opens the door and peeks in.
I give him a pained smile. “Probably something I ate, or something.” The voice scratches unpleasantly in my throat.
Encouraged by my peaceful behavior, Lars enters and sinks down on the floor next to me. “Pretty cold, the tiles,” he says.
I shrug my shoulders.
“If there's anything you want to talk about, you know you can trust me, Tom.”
I shrug my shoulders again. “What would I want to talk about?”
“That's up to you.”
“Mhm. Ok.”
We sit in silence for about ten minutes before Lars speaks again: ”What bothers you about Alasdair?”
“Is there anything else we can talk about besides that ass?”
“See, that's exactly what I mean.”
“Do I always have to have a reason for everything? I just can't stand him!”
“Is it because he's gay?”
“I don't care what the guy does in his bed.” As long as I don't have to listen to it.
“Our father is not exactly tolerant in that regard.”
“Our father is not tolerant in any respect. But I'm not him. And I don't listen to him anymore either.”
“No, of course not. But sometimes...” Lars interrupts himself.
“Sometimes...”
Lars looks at me sideways. There is caution in his eyes. “Sometimes...” he continues. “Sometimes I wonder if his opinion is not more important to you than you want to admit.”
“Nonsense!” I clarify. “Would I have dropped out of law school, which was so important to him, otherwise?”
“One doesn't exclude the other.”
“And pigs can't fly. So what? What do you actually want from me, Lars?”
“I want to know if you're okay, little brother.”
“I'm six feet tall.”
“Kar. Tall, big mouth and absolutely determined to avoid serious conversations.”
“Isn't it nice how well you know me?”
“Sure. You're like an open book to me, and I can flip through the pages any way I want.”
“You wish.”
Lars sighs, then smiles. “You know what I'd really like right now? A delicious piece of cake at Café Bach.”
A little later, we're actually on our way to Café Bach.
I just lost my job. It's an inconvenience that happens to me again and again. My brother thinks I provoke getting fired. He's only partly right. In fact, I just don't make any effort to not get fired. And if I think my boss is a brain-amputated idiot, I'll tell him so.
Of course, I'll have to look for a new job. My father is insanely rich, but since I no longer live my life according to his ideas, I don't get any support from him – besides, I wouldn't have accepted a cent from him. Not anymore.
A few months ago, things looked different. Until I turned 22, I was an extremely obedient son. Obedient and successful. My high school graduation was as good as could be hoped for, and in law school I was among the best of the best from the very beginning. My father's clients already saw me as a competent new addition to his firm.
My father thanked me for all of this with a generous financial allowance. I lived in a luxurious loft apartment in the middle of the city and went to the most exclusive restaurants and clubs. My clothes were chic and expensive, and so were my friends.
Everything seemed perfect, that is, until I woke up in my huge mahogany bed on my twenty-second birthday and suddenly realized that I hated my job as a lawyer, that my friends were nothing more than money-hungry, superficial liars, and that my large, perfect apartment was filled with nothing but expensive furniture.
Of course, these problems had been looming for a while, but I had always been very successful at repressing any thoughts along these lines. That morning, however, I couldn't do it anymore.
I quit my studies, broke with my father, who refused to accept it, and moved into the apartment where we live now with Lars. My brother is still in fairly good contact with our father. After all, he is studying medicine. That doesn't make him a suitable successor for the law firm, but it is a respectable profession. Nevertheless, Lars does not accept financial support from our father. He never has. He has always been very strict and clear in his views on this.
Would I have a better relationship with our father today if I had followed my own path from the beginning, like Lars, and always stood on my own two feet? Do I even know what my own path is? Shifting from one uninteresting job to the next is not truly fulfilling either.
Whatever. I shake off my gloomy thoughts. I can have a good time at lunchtime. We are halfway through the month, the rent is paid and my account is not overdrawn at the moment. So it's enough if I don't start looking for a job until tomorrow.
I spontaneously go to the city park. Although it is autumn and already relatively cool, I lie down in the middle of the meadow, which is so popular in summer, stretch my arms and legs and stare into the cloudy sky. A bird is circling in the distance. My eyes follow it without too much interest. Nevertheless, I am aware of the animal's enormous size. Some kind of bird of prey? There is something disconcerting about the way it flies. But then, my knowledge of birds is pretty limited. Shrugging my shoulders inwardly, I close my eyes and try not to think about anything, which works surprisingly well for me.
At some point, a shadow falls on me and I squint unwillingly upwards. A woman is standing in front of me. Late twenties, long blonde hair, big eyes, full lips, self-confident charisma, very pretty.
She smiles and squats down next to me. “Hi. I'm Sara.”
I remain silent, but she is not deterred. A woman like her probably always gets her way sooner or later.
“Isn't it a bit cold to lie on the meadow like this?” She runs her fingertips over the grass, barely touching it. ”And a bit damp?”
“I like it when the moisture soaks my clothes and makes them slowly become clammy,” I say with a serious voice.
She laughs, straightens up again and holds out her hand to me. ”And I like to invite pretty young men to coffee.”
“That's probably great for the pretty young men.” And presumably any man she paid attention to would do cartwheels for joy or drop to his knees. Objectively, she is absolutely desirable. Yet I feel only the all-too-familiar indifference. Sure, I've had a few girlfriends and been in bed with almost all of them. But none of them really excited me. While other guys my age are crazy about sex, for me it has only ever been quite nice. The moment of climax is of course not to be sneezed at, but after that I have never really felt satisfied. And whatever the woman has to be like to awaken my passion, it is definitely not the beauty in front of me.
She looks at me with raised eyebrows. “You're not making it easy for me. Don't you like me?”
“You're a very attractive woman,” I say, and I mean it.
“But...”
“No buts.”
“Am I too old for you?”
“No, I like mature women.”
“Mature women?“ She playfully kicks me in the side. ‘I'm not that old!”
I get up after all, look at her face up close. ’You're right. Not a single wrinkle. Except maybe here...” I touch her very briefly next to her right eye.
Even if she is not the woman of my dreams, a little distraction wouldn't be a bad thing, I decide. Before she can become indignant again, I give her my best smile. “What was that again about coffee?”
We go for a drink. After that, I take her back to my place.
In the entrance hall, we meet Alasdair and his bunny Simon. The latter gives me a dark look, as if he knows exactly how I feel about him. He puts his arm around Alasdair's waist, kisses him and looks straight at me.
What's that supposed to mean?
Alasdair returns the kiss, but he doesn't seem very enthusiastic. Is the little one getting on his nerves too? I certainly hope so. I'm not interested in their relationship at all, but I'm more than tired of hearing them regularly at night. Maybe next time Alasdair will get one that doesn't squeal like a stuck pig. On the spur of the moment, I rename Simon from bunny to piglet. And I tell him right away. Including the reason.
His dark look turns into a deadly one. “You're just jealous because things are going so well between me and my Ally-babe!” he snarls.
Ally-babe... It doesn't get much more stupid than that.
“Right,” I snap back, ‘as if I'm interested in your relationship.’ Then I turn to Sara: ‘Let's go inside. Piggy and Ally-sweetheart will probably be fine without us.”
She looks at me with raised eyebrows. ’Yes, I'm sure they will. By the way, I don't squeal like a pig, but hiss and purr like a tiger. Is that better?”
I grin. “Much better.”
I simply leave Alasdair and Simon standing there and lead Sara to my apartment.
A little later, I realize that there is indeed something feline about her. My back is adorned with a few scratch marks, so passionately she pounces on me.
For me, it's the same as always: a brief climax, then a feeling of emptiness, as if something is missing. But now I have learned to hide these feelings very well, so that Sara finally lies happily and contentedly in my arms.
We cuddle a little longer, then she goes home. But not without giving me her phone number first. I promise to get in touch with her.
That night Simon squeals particularly loudly, which he is definitely doing on purpose. In between, Alasdair's distinctly deeper, rougher groans cannot be ignored either. Why does this damn apartment have to be so poorly insulated?
I pull the blanket over my head and try to fall asleep. In vain.
A rhythmic banging joins the groaning. Bed against wall, I suspect, and curse.
When an hour later there is still no peace, I've had enough. Enraged, I jump out of bed, slip into boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and march up to Alasdair's apartment like a threatening thunderstorm.
I ring the doorbell as if it were to blame for everything, and I don't stop even when I hear someone tampering with the lock.
The door is flung open and Alasdair stands before me. He is wearing nothing but skimpy boxer shorts that show more than they conceal. And for the first time, I realize how attractive this bastard actually is. About six feet tall. Well-formed muscles. Quite strong, but not excessively so. A rugged face, high cheekbones, straight nose. Full, boldly curved lips. Big, blue eyes and black, curly hair. Skin that looks so even and velvety that I am almost tempted to run my fingertips over it to see if it feels the same. Suddenly, an uncomfortable lump sits in my throat.
“You can stop sounding now,” I hear Alasdair's voice.
His strange undertone jolts me out of my reverie. I realize that I'm staring at him, feel caught, and involuntarily take a step back.
Damn! Angry and defensive at the same time, I fold my arms across my chest. “Did I interrupt something, Ally darling?” At least I manage the ironic tone perfectly.
“If you put it that way, yes, you did.” Alasdair doesn't even appear to be remotely embarrassed.
“And do you really think it's necessary to let the whole neighborhood in on your screwing?”
“Since the whole neighborhood is taking a keen interest in what I'm doing in my bed anyway, I'm just doing the good people a favor, don't you think?”
“No, I don't.” Of course, I understand his innuendo immediately and feel embarrassed, albeit unjustifiably so. ‘Can I help it if not everyone around here gets off when two guys jump each other?’ I add in a very aggressive tone.
“And what about you?”
“What?”
His next question is accompanied by a strange grin as he asks me: “Do you get off on two guys jumping each other?”
For a brief moment, I am simply speechless. Then, before I even realize what I'm doing, I give him a resounding slap in the face. The sound of the slap echoes in the empty stairwell, while I feel the urge to storm back to my apartment. But I must not do that under any circumstances. To flee now would be tantamount to an admission. And since I am certainly not gay, I don't want to give rise to such suspicions. As if I didn't have enough trouble with Alasdair already!
I glare at him angrily, he looks back silently. His eyes are large and unusually dark in the dim light of the stairwell. I try to interpret his expressionless face. I don't succeed. What is going on in that bastard's head?
“I don't want to know what you're up to and I certainly don't want to hear about it!” I return to the subject.
“Right...” Alasdair's voice sounds husky, which is something I've never heard him do before.
Are you getting sick, asshole? Poor, poor Ally-darling.
Alasdair clears his throat. ‘Maybe Simon and I have exaggerated a little.’ Now he sounds like himself again. So unbearably self-confident.
“A little exaggerated...? That seems to me...”
“...a little understated?” Alasdair interrupts me. ”Simon is angry with you. And he has every reason to be. You always go out of your way to insult him.”
“The little pig shouldn't be such a baby about it.”
“I'd like to return that to you, word for word.”
“Fuck you!”
“I would if I could.”
Alasdair and I look at each other. He's amused, as usual, I'm angry, as usual.
“By the way, we heard your beautiful girlfriend too at lunchtime,” Alasdair finally says.
“That wasn't my girlfriend.”
“But you had fun, didn't you?”
“So what? Do you mind?”
“Although... I didn't hear a peep out of you.” Alasdair tilts his head slightly and looks at me with a playful expression on his face. ”Didn't you like it with her? Or are you just a bit more reserved in bed? Although, to be honest, I don't think the latter is likely. Considering the passion with which you always go at me...”
Alasdair grins broadly. He winks at me and I would like to slap him again. Or better yet, punch him in the face. Meanwhile, the mention of Alasdair, me and passion in the same sentence strangely gives me an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I have no intention of discussing my sex life with you!” I hurl at him.
“Hm, no? Why not?”
“...
“Come on, Tommy.”
“Don't you dare call me Tommy!”
“Isn't it perfectly normal for men to talk about sex?”
“Except that our preferences are miles apart.”
“I said talk, not live it out together, Tom. But if you'd rather...”
“I'm leaving now!” I interrupt Alasdair. It's much too warm and stuffy in the stairwell. Extremely unusual for this time of year, but I can feel myself starting to sweat and find it difficult to breathe. It's definitely time to go back to my apartment.
“Too bad.” A slight smile plays around the corner of Alasdair's mouth. It creates a small dimple on his right cheek, which I just notice for the first time.
And which doesn't matter at all.
“I would have really liked to know what your preferences are.”
I tear my eyes away from Alasdair's lips and dimple and concentrate fully on my venomous reply: “I like feet, especially when they smell nice of sweat. I also like to sniff old panties and I'm crazy about nibbling on lower lips.”
“Really?” Alasdair laughs. ‘I even believe you about the first two things. The last one seems a bit exaggerated, though.’ As if it were just an unconscious gesture, he bites his lower lip. And to my shame, I can't do anything but watch him. Even as he continues speaking, I still stare at his mouth.
“By the way, I like athletic men with green eyes, blond hair and a beautiful voice.”
“I have green eyes,“ I hear myself say.
“No kidding.”
“And blond hair,” someone with my voice adds.
“Are you quite sure about that?” Alasdair takes a step towards me and is suddenly very close to me. Too close. I know I should step back, feel his breath on my neck like on the night of the party and hate it! Yet I can't move, I'm completely frozen.
Alasdair runs his hand through my hair. It's a careful but firm touch that makes my scalp tingle, then my entire body.
“Hm, actually. You are blonde,” Alasdair mutters. With one hand still in my hair, he puts the other on my shoulder and pushes me backwards with gentle pressure. On legs that no longer belong to me, I stumble backwards until I feel the cold, unyielding wall at my back. Alasdair comes even closer to me, although I can no longer retreat, trapped between him and the wall. I gasp desperately for air, feel my heart racing as if it wants to jump out of my chest.
I grasp Alasdair's shoulders to push him away, at least in theory. But instead of putting my plan into action, I cling to him even tighter, as my knees suddenly become so weak that they can hardly carry me anymore.
Alasdair puts a hand under my chin and forces me to look at him. As his mouth comes closer with excruciating slowness, his gaze pierces mine. The dark blue of his eyes is like a maelstrom I cannot escape. The pitiful rest of my mind screams first angrily and then in panic, as my body no longer makes any attempt to defend itself.
Then, all of a sudden, Alasdair stops, frozen in mid-motion. I wonder if he's just realized who he has in front of him? I breathe a sigh of relief. But to my horror, the sound I make sounds more like a disappointed sigh.
Alasdair lets go of me and steps back. His entire body radiates tension. He tilts his head as if listening for something.
Simon? – Hardly, he would have made himself heard with a loud screeching long ago.
“Go back to your apartment and close the door,” Alasdair says in a hushed voice. His tone is commanding and brooks no argument. Normally, I wouldn't have taken it, of course. But at that moment, I'm just glad to be able to disappear as quickly as possible.
Without saying a word, I turn away, hurry down the stairs and enter the apartment where Lars is sleeping peacefully, unaware of what has just happened in the stairwell. What would he say if he knew that his brother almost let Alasdair kiss him?
Almost kissed by Alasdair. And I wouldn't have resisted.
No sooner have I entered my room, this truth hits me with full force.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
In helpless rage, I beat on my old bulky waste couch until exhaustion overcomes me and I sink to the floor, completely exhausted.
Why did I let this happen? I'm not gay, I don't even like the guy. So what was that about? Why didn't I just smash his face in like he deserved?
A long-forgotten memory assails me. At the time, I was out and about in the city with my parents. My mother was still alive, so I couldn't have been older than eight years old. On a bench, I saw two men kissing each other openly. I was very irritated, but at the same time I couldn't take my eyes off the scene. “When two men kiss, they're homosexual,” my mother explained. “Just disgusting. Repulsive!” my father added. “The likes of them should be locked up!”
A tortured laugh escapes my throat. Maybe I should kiss Alasdair after all. Just to give my father another reason to loathe me.
What would his lips have felt like?
I push this thought away, but others, no less unwelcome, follow.
Why did he suddenly send me away? Did he just want to know if he could kiss me? A little bonus for my self-esteem? The chance to finally get the upper hand in our constant arguments?
“Shit!”
Suddenly I realize that it could only have been a trap. A trap that should never have been dangerous to me.
If I had been well rested and fit, none of this would have happened. Alasdair only had a chance because it's the middle of the night and I couldn't get a wink of sleep because of his damn fucking with his stupid friend!
Eventually, as dusk is already falling outside, I finally go to bed. I have myself more or less under control again and am determined not to let Alasdair take advantage of the almost-kiss. After all, strictly speaking, nothing happened at all. After all, I may have tested him too.
With these thoughts, I fall asleep