Hey! Welcome back to the pink room. Grab a seat, get comfortable… we might be here for a little while.
Can I write you a love letter?
A love letter to the sun.
I know. Maybe it’s silly. But it’s under the sun that all the beautiful things happen. Or. Maybe. 10 months in Germany left me desperately sun-deprived. Or at least in desperate need of Vitamin D. And love letters to the sun is how I am coping with the loss.
Or maybe. I just mean. To me. Munich isn’t mountains or hikes or ski slopes.
It’s bright warm sunrays on an impossibly cold winter morning on a balcony that smells of tobacco and beer or perhaps more accurately cigarette butts soaked in beer (a particular kind of scent that you can’t really unsmell) pretending to write because it’s long past that point when your fingers remember how movement works with a now ice cold espresso. But sun is rare. And best to take as much of it as you can
It’s coffee every Thursday. Or I mean. it’s cappuccinos with oat milk every Thursday. Or no I mean, it’s second-hand smoke and sun and unmaking and remaking the world for longer than is an acceptable time in a cafe and cappuccinos with oat milk every Thursday. At the crack of dawn. Because he’s a morning person. Because they both are. And soon it’s on Monday. And Wednesday. And then whenever you’re free. And. not at 7 but 8. Only because he doesn’t have to be at work so early. And then 9. And then he got lost. Or the ubahn stopped moving. So we just say 10. And by that, we mean the whole morning. And maybe the afternoon. We just won’t check the time. There is only so much time for a marxist transformation
It’s long walks.
Because. well, the sun’s out.
It’s how he stops every single time. Every. Single. Time. To admire. literally any creature. I never knew a squirrel or a rabbit to be so worthy of attention till I met him. Till he squealed. And told me of all the other animals he stopped for. And I said I don’t want to kill them but I am okay without them. And of course, I meant I love you. I mean it’s sunny. And there’s a rabbit. Or there’s finally flowers. Blooming. And so you literally stop to smell the flowers. And I don’t say anything because I know in that moment you healed me. And you say. There’s flowers. And so we have an impromptu photo session. And I say I didn’t know I was a closed person. And you say it’s okay. And we don’t say much. Until that time you told me sometimes life feels too heavy. And I cried for a year at least even though the calendar seemed to call it a week. And it’s every late-night walk where you swore you could see as long as we kept the phone flashlights off and we blamed those random passersby with their bright cameras for why we tripped on our way up the hill at midnight.
It’s Hans im Glück. Well until they changed the menu. or management. Either way. It’s how I had a cocktail with you and shared my whole life. I told you about my Dad. And you told me about yours. I told you about how I think I might like girls. And you say you do too. And I said I am scared and you said I know. And then. we went to a lesbian bar. well center. well kind of bar. And they were all white. And we giggled at the first spot of brown skin that entered. And neither dared to say hi. And you said maybe old women are kind of your type. And I smiled. And we rode the ubahn in silence. Not because there wasn’t anything to say. Probably because there was. or. we were both just tired. it was late. And I didn’t really drink alcohol. So even that Radler had kind of slowed my thoughts.
It’s the first shot. That tasted like mouthwash. And you laughed. and said yeah. you never had a shot before. and, it’s not that bad. And I said no. as the warmth pooled in my belly. But what I didn’t tell you. is that I never really felt safe before. And yet, tonight at 11 PM, with you, in this crowded bar of white men but apparently not a gay bar but either way it reminded you of Berlin with this corner side techno DJ, my whole body eased. And. I didn’t tell you. That. that night. all my secrets that until then had felt so big they threatened to destroy me just tumbled out with ease. like they were meant to. And so when we both saw that beautiful black femme moving their body to the repetitive or perhaps in your words freeing techno beat, I let you move me toward them and the center. And we danced for only like an hour before I got tired. And you said are you up for another. And I shook my head. And you didn’t question it. And we walked home together. And if anyone ever asks me what freedom feels like I will tell them about that night. and I won’t explain.
So I guess if I were to write a love letter to the sun. or munich. or munich in the sun. or the sun in munich.
Well, actually.
Maybe it’s best if you just buy a picnic blanket. not the first one you find in dm though… ask the bees. Buy a picnic blanket and then a kuffiyah. And fall hard for the first girl you meet. And become an expert with espresso machines and learn how to peel grape leaves. And make butternut squash soup but call it pumpkin. Buy a journal. well, maybe 2. And by then I guess you will be writing love letters too. So I will read yours instead.
Or maybe we will forget about the letters and stare at the sunset. or the sunrise. or just sit silently on our picnic blanket in whatever park you choose and let the sun do all the talking till midnight.
Alright. That’s all for now. Till next time friends.
From the Pink Room 