You won’t believe this story, but it’s true, well … Besides the made-up parts. You know like the one about my front tooth. That one is an absolute lie. I’m also pretty sure that I’m way older than I am about to tell you – unless my mom was an absolute fucking liar too. Then I might as well be exactly 29,3 years old. You probably give a shit about my age, all you care about is the lie about my tooth, but we are not there yet. First, we start with the truth. And nothing but … Who am I kidding?
We start in a dark room. I’m sitting in a dark room. On a plastic chair. How depressing. Oh, there she comes. Miss moon-washed-jeans-and-dark-hoodie. God, I know exactly what she wants, she wants to hear a good story. She switches on the voice recorder. Her upper lip is very thin. Nice teeth. She wants me to tell her about last night. Ok, let’s do this. I’ll tell her.
We start in my kitchen. We start in our kitchen. It’s me, in here, on my own. He just went out to get breakfast. Eggs and milk and bread. He was on a business trip. I was home, and I didn’t get any eggs or milk or bread – I really didn’t care about that. I got wine. And herpes from sharing a cigarette with our local bum. Maybe it was a beer. Anyways, I look pretty in our kitchen; I’m happy that he is back, I’ve missed him. I’m a bit angry with myself for not getting the damn eggs, but I’ll make it up. I’ll unpack his bag. Like a good girlfriend. Like a good wife. His bag is in our bedroom. I got him that bag years ago. Cost me a fortune back then, back then when I was always broke and living off the salary of an intern. He would tell you that my parents paid my rent but who’s to say that he tells the truth?
The bag is open already, as if he quickly unpacked the most important stuff, like his laptop, I guess. I can’t even remember when he got back; was it last night? No, it was this morning, I remember him kissing my cheek right where the sunlight hit it through the window. Why didn’t he kiss me on the lips? The Herpes? Perhaps.
Back to the bag. I crouch down next to it, pick up a shirt, and throw it onto our bed. Another one. Some undies. Another shirt. Bags of candy. Pig. We don’t eat candy here. Another shirt and then, there it is: his hard drive. It’s black with pink tape around it. He always carries it with him, in his work bag and travel bag. Sure, nothing unusual; he is a photographer and needs the storage. Pretty sure that this is for work. Pretty sure that I’m gonna hate myself for doing what I’m about to do. Pretty sure that he didn’t kiss me on the lips, just on the cheek, like I’m the friend of a friend at a snooty dinner party. Not his girlfriend. The Herpes! Well, fuck it, it’s too late now anyways. I connect the hard drive to my laptop.
I click-click. Type: W H A T …
I don’t even need to enter the S. Click-click. Enter. Index finger on the “down” arrow. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Click.
I hear a heavy, dense wind. I hear the sound of thick, salty waves. I hear a click, click, click. The wind: my breath. Fast out, almost nothing in. Salty waves and the blood rushing through my ears are making me almost deaf … all build into a rhythm. Click. All the air in the world – leaving my lungs. Click. The heavy waves. I feel like a kettle about to burst. Click. And no one is here to turn the heat off.
The last click is down.
The waves calm down, and the wind dies. I hold my breath as I copy the folder onto my desk. Pixels and pixels of his dick and some cunt. I pull the cable. I stuff his shit back into the damn fucking bag, bury the hard drive between his undies, and walk to the bathroom.
When did he leave to get the bread and milk and eggs? I need a shower. My cheeks are wet. Why didn’t he kiss me on the lips?
He comes back. Whistle on his lips. My body wrapped in towels. I’m not hungry, but I eat the damn fucking eggs anyways. I do it for him. He went out to get them. Of course, I was angry, but then again, it’s just a cunt. I mean fucking ain’t love. I was just angry because he lied. You know. We had a nice day. I was happy he was back. I was just sad because he didn’t kiss me on the lips. The herpes wasn’t that bad. Look, it's almost gone already. Look. Can you still see it? Can you?
“Miss Meyer, please stay calm. Do you want some water?”
I want to know if you can see my herpes.
“That’s really not the topic here.”
Well, it is to me. If your boyfriend comes back after like two fucking weeks away, does he kiss you on the cheek? Wouldn’t kiss me on the mouth. Asshole. I don’t even like eggs. Where is my damn water now?
“Can we please talk about what happened next?”
So, your boyfriend kisses you on the lips? Or girlfriend? Husband?
“This isn’t about my partner.”
No partner. Cool. Thought so. Water?
“What kind of eggs?”
What kind? What does it fucking matter? Scrambled. I think. I don’t even like eggs. Why did he fuck around? No, actually, the question is, why did he fuck around and film it.
Boiled! They were boiled. We had no olive oil left. He boiled them. Soft. Because he thinks I like them soft.
“But you don’t?”
No.
“What happened after that?”
We went out for a walk. I mean I blew dry my hair first. That always takes a while. I have really thick hair. I have nice hair. He likes my hair. No idea why he would fuck some blondie. Not even his type.
You know you need to use a lot of product with thick hair like mine. Keep it shiny. And sleek. My hair looked great. Everyone said so.
“Did he?”
What kind of questions is that?
“I’m interested, did he say anything nice to you?”
He boiled eggs.
“Which you don’t like.”
He doesn’t know. He loves me. I love him. We were really happy. We went for a walk. The weather was nice. Not too hot. And we had some wine. We love day drinking. You know that’s the couple we are. Saturdays, we buy groceries and drink wine. Riesling.
“You walked outside and got drunk together.”
Yes. It was dreamy. We held hands, you know we always do.
“Where exactly did you go?”
Here and there.
“I thought it’s something you always do, so you always go to the same places?”
Like I said here and there. We start by the river and just stop at all the nice places.
“If I asked someone if they recognized you, would they?”
Excuse me?
“What would they say? Would they say you two had a fight?”
Please.
“Would they say you screamed at him?”
I never scream. Wanna talk to someone who screams a lot? Call that cunt he was fucking.
“Please. Stay calm.”
No. I didn’t. Neither did he. We were holding hands, and we drank Riesling. We ordered champagne at some point.
“Where?”
Can’t remember. Maybe at the third location. It’s just that I got a bit tired and so I needed something to wake you. And he wanted oysters.
“None of the places you mentioned offers oysters.”
I know. But he wanted some, so we got into a car to another place.
“A taxi? Did you order with an app?”
Of course. Don’t you?
“What next?”
Oysters. And more champagne. You know, the first time ever I had an oyster was with him, in Berlin. It was disgusting. But now I really love it. So fresh. And they taste better with something sparkly. He was in such a good mood. He ordered more drinks. And we went shopping.
“What did you buy?”
Wine. Red. And some fresh pasta. I’m a good chef, you know. Can I get more water?
“In a minute. So, you went home?”
No, we met some friends. They were in our neighborhood. And we had wine. Also, it was quite late by then and I was super horny. I mean, I was super horny, and I was still a bit sad.
“Because you found those videos?”
No, because he didn’t kiss me on the lips.
“Sure.”
We went to see some friends, and we kissed in the taxi. I like that. Makes me feel, you know … I don’t know. Maybe young. Like a star. And really, my herpes was almost gone.
“Where did you meet your friends?”
In our place.
“Did you tell them about the videos?”
No. I made the pasta. Told you I’m a good chef.
“You drank more?”
Yes. We had those bottles of wine. The pasta was really good. I think they all liked it. We had no olive oil. But I used butter. I think they really liked it. It was a perfect night until the thing with my tooth happened.
“What happened?”
We drank red wine. Barolo and Amarone. Really thick, nice, sweet red wine. And we listened to music. And my favourite song came on. You know I’m a bad singer but a great performer. And it was my favourite song. I needed a mic to perform. Everyone was singing and we danced, we all danced. And so I grabbed the bottle. The Amarone. I needed a mic, so I grabbed it with a lot of, you know, passion, and I crashed it against my front tooth. Bang.
I broke my tooth.
“What else?”
What else? Any idea how shocked I was? I had my tooth in my mouth. The bottle also broke. The wine was everywhere! Do you know how expensive that Amarone was? I was shocked. But he laughed. I mean, I had just knocked my tooth out, and he laughed, red wine all over my clothes.
“What did you do then?”
I grabbed my coat and ran outside. Called a taxi. You know what happened. I went to the ER.
“And that’s all? You knocked your tooth out, spilled the wine, and got a taxi on your own?”
Yes. The others were dancing.
“Miss Meyer, the taxi driver that picked you up, said you were covered in blood. You stank of alcohol. He said you still had half a bottle in your hand. Do you remember?”
I knocked my tooth out. I was covered in red wine. Pretty sure he stank too. I wanted to get my tooth fixed.
“He drove you to the ER and called the police. He told them where he’d picked you up. Remember what happened at home?”
Why the fuck do I have to tell you over and over again? My friends were dancing and drinking. I wanted to get my tooth fixed. Any idea how ugly I looked with that crooked tooth?
“Your friends weren’t dancing.”
What?
“Wanna know what we saw when we came into your home? We saw your friends, and they were covered in blood. Lying in a sea of wine and blood. Two had their throats slit open. Probably cut with a broken wine bottle. The third one. Your boyfriend was in the bathroom. He also had his throat cut. Actually, his whole upper body was full of cuts. He was slaughtered.”
We had a lot of wine. I broke my tooth.
“I think you should tell me what really happened.”
You know, they were all clumsy dancers and quite drunk.
I know you won’t believe this story, but it’s true. It’s all true. I was at home, with my herpes, my boyfriend came back, he didn’t kiss me on the lips. He had fucked some cunt. But didn’t kiss me on the lips. We drank, we danced, and I made great pasta. We had some Amarone. I broke my tooth. I broke my fucking tooth off! Do you have any idea how fucked-up I looked with that broken, crooked tooth? You have no fucking idea how that felt. That tooth in my mouth. That bottle in my hand.
Can I get some more water? Please?