“Herr is mister, but if you’re talking about a female figure it’s frau.”
Lately we’ve been indulging. On living and absorbing all there is to offer. On feeding each other Doritos by the beach. Eyeing a solo spirit curled up topless and an Andy McKee lookalike immersing his entire self in the waves (but his Hawaiian holiday hat). I’m scared that the new environment does not care enough, the small pleasures in life, the news article that’s making headlines anywhere but the major media outlets, the areas outside all your usual suspected boxes. Your enthusiasm and stubbornness, both gracefully invested towards your passion. Your determination to sketch with your left hand while I redress your post-op wounds, and your general lack of interest to clean your living space. Where shall I embark at the end of the day to have the day’s fatigue wiped away between my brows? Whom should I buy patisseries for on my way home from work? And who will I look back on as I trudge on the path home to see if he’s not far behind? Small time frames is what we have and tight schedules is what we’ll have to work on. So much to entrust I wish I can press these affections, emotions, warmth and best wishes to you and even more. So you will depart wrapped in a warm sweater of my blessings to the brutal icy bite of South Germany’s clouds. 25 minutes of break, 15 minutes where I can possibly meet you so to squeeze your hands, 10 minutes where I struggle with the age old debate whether I push back bedtime for you (very much bright-eyed and energetic with Safari opened to Top Gear, you and your Porsche) and 10 fleeting seconds I know I’ll only be allowed, to see your features disappear behind the departure area as I have no choice but to board that dreadful plane.