2025-07-11, 07:50 PM
There it was. Under the tree, in the shade. Covered in bird droppings—even though it had only been parked there for half an hour. My Volkswagen Golf. It was dark blue and called a 1.9 TDI Highline.
My Golf.
If I hadn't known better, I would have said I'd never owned such a dirty car. But it was parked under that tree. Because that's where I had parked it.
I had just come from the city, from the café. I was strolling down the sunny street.
A bird landed on the hood of my Golf.
My Golf, yes.
It was dangerous, life-threatening. But only as soon as I got out of it. As soon as I got back in it, I was the one who made it dangerous.
But now... there was a loud, sudden crack and the hood swung jerkily towards the windshield as if held by a previously tensioned spring.
The pigeon—I think it was a pigeon—was thrown through the air and almost hit a no-parking sign.
My Golf, yes, that was it.
He just wants to play.
Chapter
1
I did it. I finally managed to reach my home without any major damage.
Somewhere far from civilization. In the middle of the Ruhr region.
Where these scratches, which I only just noticed, came from? I didn't know. In any case, they hadn't been there before I started the trip.
So what?
If you love your car, it will love you too. Or something like that went the advertisement. Only from a hardware store.
Anyway, I was stuck in traffic, even though I could have taken a different route.
What was it supposed to do?
Me? Yes, that's me. Just turned eighteen, a little lonely, and an avid car enthusiast. My mother works, my father is dead.
And I'm gay.
At least I was home now. I'd maneuvered the Golf into the garage—a bit carelessly, perhaps, but it was just a car. Just a car? Just? It was a car! A Golf.
Not particularly beautiful. A Golf, after all. Okay, it was midnight blue, and in some places, especially at the front, you could even see the stars. And the moon of Wanne-Eickel. Stone chip, that was the correct diagnosis. The rear license plate was crooked, albeit only by a few millimeters, but it was crooked.
There was a hint of red lipstick on the driver's door. No, it was more likely the work of a bully who hadn't been able to park. But it was nice.
And now, exhausted, I staggered through the garden into the hallway. Then, as usual, I went upstairs and collapsed onto the couch in my room.
Yes, my room. It was small but nice. With carpet. And a balcony view.
Enough space for a desk, a dresser, a former bookcase that now serves as a wardrobe, reducing the usable floor space, a room divider, a shelf, a bed, and a couch. All in just under twelve square meters.
Well, there was a trick to it. The bed was a loft bed, and the couch also found its place underneath.
I sighed. Outside, it was raining again. A fine English drizzle at a pleasant nineteen degrees.
I sat there for a few more minutes, then I got tired of doing nothing. I had to do something.
Writing? Listening to music? Watching TV?
I couldn't decide, so I first put the DVD into the DVD player under the TV, then turned on the radio, and then booted up my laptop.
So there I was, sitting at my desk, distracted by a film and a rock concert, trying to write something halfway decent for school about Aurelius Augustinus.
Nothing came to mind. Less than nothing. Instead, I listened to the music—it was a guitar solo at the time—while simultaneously watching the film and typing on my laptop keyboard, uninspired.
At some point, the music disappeared from my mind, and the film increasingly took over, pushing out all other thoughts.
Except for one: "Boy, get on the internet! You have to do something!"
No sooner said than done. The movies and music continued, and now I went online. After a quick check of my email inbox, which revealed nothing but ads, I tried to chat with someone from one of my classes.
Dead silence. On a Wednesday night. No one there.
At first I thought about quickly posting a text for the school newspaper in the forum, but I left it at that and went to another page.
To the personal ads.
One click and I was in my region. Another click and I had narrowed the age of potential candidates for a spontaneous meeting down to 24 at the most.
Why twenty-four? It's such a beautiful number. Three times two to the power of three. Five to the power of two minus one. Six times four. I have no idea why.
I read the various requests with interest.
»Looking for a boy for friendship and more...« ...
Always the same thing. But one ad caught my attention.
"Lonely boy looking for someone to lean on, cuddle, and talk to." That sounded better. I quickly wrote him an email.
"Hi you. I feel the same way. I also need someone to talk to. Can we meet?"
I added my name and then clicked "Send." The response came promptly.
"Hi. Meeting sounds good. When and where? Marc."
The remaining formalities were handled via chat, and just a few minutes later I had grabbed a rain jacket and was back in the Golf.
My Golf.
If I hadn't known better, I would have said I'd never owned such a dirty car. But it was parked under that tree. Because that's where I had parked it.
I had just come from the city, from the café. I was strolling down the sunny street.
A bird landed on the hood of my Golf.
My Golf, yes.
It was dangerous, life-threatening. But only as soon as I got out of it. As soon as I got back in it, I was the one who made it dangerous.
But now... there was a loud, sudden crack and the hood swung jerkily towards the windshield as if held by a previously tensioned spring.
The pigeon—I think it was a pigeon—was thrown through the air and almost hit a no-parking sign.
My Golf, yes, that was it.
He just wants to play.
Chapter
1
I did it. I finally managed to reach my home without any major damage.
Somewhere far from civilization. In the middle of the Ruhr region.
Where these scratches, which I only just noticed, came from? I didn't know. In any case, they hadn't been there before I started the trip.
So what?
If you love your car, it will love you too. Or something like that went the advertisement. Only from a hardware store.
Anyway, I was stuck in traffic, even though I could have taken a different route.
What was it supposed to do?
Me? Yes, that's me. Just turned eighteen, a little lonely, and an avid car enthusiast. My mother works, my father is dead.
And I'm gay.
At least I was home now. I'd maneuvered the Golf into the garage—a bit carelessly, perhaps, but it was just a car. Just a car? Just? It was a car! A Golf.
Not particularly beautiful. A Golf, after all. Okay, it was midnight blue, and in some places, especially at the front, you could even see the stars. And the moon of Wanne-Eickel. Stone chip, that was the correct diagnosis. The rear license plate was crooked, albeit only by a few millimeters, but it was crooked.
There was a hint of red lipstick on the driver's door. No, it was more likely the work of a bully who hadn't been able to park. But it was nice.
And now, exhausted, I staggered through the garden into the hallway. Then, as usual, I went upstairs and collapsed onto the couch in my room.
Yes, my room. It was small but nice. With carpet. And a balcony view.
Enough space for a desk, a dresser, a former bookcase that now serves as a wardrobe, reducing the usable floor space, a room divider, a shelf, a bed, and a couch. All in just under twelve square meters.
Well, there was a trick to it. The bed was a loft bed, and the couch also found its place underneath.
I sighed. Outside, it was raining again. A fine English drizzle at a pleasant nineteen degrees.
I sat there for a few more minutes, then I got tired of doing nothing. I had to do something.
Writing? Listening to music? Watching TV?
I couldn't decide, so I first put the DVD into the DVD player under the TV, then turned on the radio, and then booted up my laptop.
So there I was, sitting at my desk, distracted by a film and a rock concert, trying to write something halfway decent for school about Aurelius Augustinus.
Nothing came to mind. Less than nothing. Instead, I listened to the music—it was a guitar solo at the time—while simultaneously watching the film and typing on my laptop keyboard, uninspired.
At some point, the music disappeared from my mind, and the film increasingly took over, pushing out all other thoughts.
Except for one: "Boy, get on the internet! You have to do something!"
No sooner said than done. The movies and music continued, and now I went online. After a quick check of my email inbox, which revealed nothing but ads, I tried to chat with someone from one of my classes.
Dead silence. On a Wednesday night. No one there.
At first I thought about quickly posting a text for the school newspaper in the forum, but I left it at that and went to another page.
To the personal ads.
One click and I was in my region. Another click and I had narrowed the age of potential candidates for a spontaneous meeting down to 24 at the most.
Why twenty-four? It's such a beautiful number. Three times two to the power of three. Five to the power of two minus one. Six times four. I have no idea why.
I read the various requests with interest.
»Looking for a boy for friendship and more...« ...
Always the same thing. But one ad caught my attention.
"Lonely boy looking for someone to lean on, cuddle, and talk to." That sounded better. I quickly wrote him an email.
"Hi you. I feel the same way. I also need someone to talk to. Can we meet?"
I added my name and then clicked "Send." The response came promptly.
"Hi. Meeting sounds good. When and where? Marc."
The remaining formalities were handled via chat, and just a few minutes later I had grabbed a rain jacket and was back in the Golf.