Charles and the Letter

Charles came home from work a little early on Monday. He opened the door to his apartment and found it exactly like he had left it in the morning, except for a different shade of light shining through the blinds. Strange, he thought, what a difference an hour makes. He sat down at his desk and mechanically pushed the button that started his computer. While the machine was waking up with little noises that reminded him of work he let out a deep sigh and examined the table in front of him. Nothing had changed, but suddenly all the items looked a bit different in the brighter light.

There was the scanner that he had bought many years ago to digitalise the photographs he had taken with his old Minolta, the printer that he couldn’t tell for sure if it was working or not, a set of speakers, a little paper bin. Charles rubbed his eyes and put pressure on them, he found comfort in the subtle pain. He opened his eyes again and continued, from left to right. A toothbrush, unused and still in its packaging, with a plastic cover for the head that had a smiley face on it. A hand full of cards - one of them a voucher for a clothing store that he liked to shop at, its validity long expired, a travel card for use in a country that he had visited a long time ago. An old light bulb, a few coins, a remote control he never used, a newspaper from January, a half pack of AA batteries, a golden ribbon that belonged to a present he didn’t remember, a name card that showed the opening hours of a health insurance office, a stamp, a ticket to a concert he didn’t attend, three empty mugs with coffee stains on their bottoms, and a train ticket to the city he once called home.

It’s been a while, Charles noticed, since he had taken a quiet break to observe his surroundings and think about the things he now overlooked so easily. Most of the time, he just functioned. Much like the tools he used at work. But that was the way he was now, simple and steady. As the computer screen lit up he found himself sighing. The visual journey across his desk brought up many memories. He used to travel a lot and take pictures with his film camera. He used to love the unbearable time that it took to get them developed. As a young man he had a strong belief in his creative abilities, but that too was a long time ago. A heavy lump of resentment formed in his throat.

The tired man opened his email program and clicked on the notice that let him know a new message had arrived. Ordinarily he didn’t receive any interesting mails anymore. Not since he had settled down and led a stable life. It was mostly some sort of advertisement for drugs that would keep his sexual stamina alive, or one for an ominous travel agency that promised paradise around the corner. He would delete them without even reading them. The page loaded and Charles couldn’t believe his eyes. In bold letters he saw E’s full name, and next to it he read, hello my friend. E was a more than interesting sender; E was a girl he had a crush on when he was twenty-five. Charles moved nervously around in his chair, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might break through his chest. He opened the email and scrolled down to check its length before he even started reading it. He liked to know its proportions, which determined his reading pace, his preparations, his moment of luck. Even though he had forbidden himself to, he couldn’t help but catch the first line. It said, Oh Charlie.

He closed his eyes and restrained himself from reading on. He was excited, more than he could remember ever having been before. He was awake now, wide awake. His fingertips were dancing on the keyboard without pressing the keys, asdf beneath his left hand and jkl; under his right. All of a sudden he got up from his stool. He ran to the bathroom, getting rid of his clothes before he reached the shower and stepped in the booth. The hot water felt good, he thought, freeing him from the remnants of work that were clinging to his hair and coating his body. It was a great relief, and when he walked out of the bathroom he felt a few years younger. He tiptoed into the kitchen and put water in the kettle. Until the water boiled he waltzed through his apartment, drying his hair with a towel. He suddenly felt alive, as if the click of the kettle had turned some kind of switch inside his mind. He searched the back of his wardrobe and found a pair of basketball shorts that used to be too big for him and a Guns N’Roses t-shirt from his college days. From the cupboard in the kitchen he fished a bag of chocolate bits and paired it with a cup of strong decaf instant coffee.

Then he sat down at his desk again. He positioned himself comfortably on his chair and put the mug right in front of him. He enjoyed the smell of coffee that arose from it. Next, he put on a quiet jazz album and adjusted the volume of his speakers to be just perfect. He took a deep breath and reopened the email. He started reading. 

      Oh Charlie.

      It feels strange to actually ...

Charles read the letter slowly, he paid attention to every word, every little punctuation. He finished it and went back to the beginning. He read and reread the mail again and again. He had prepared coffee and didn’t take a sip, he had prepared chocolate and didn’t try a little bit. He stopped the music and sat in silence. Tears were running down his cheeks, one after another. He blinked once and he blinked twice, they dropped on his t-shirt and his basketball shorts. Outside it grew darker now, and he was all alone. Oh Charlie.

The Conversation

“So, young man,” Bernhard said, “I hear you’re quite the troublemaker?” The young man looked at him, but said nothing. “Don't feel like talking, huh?” Bernhard said. “That's alright, don't worry. Sometimes I don't feel like talking either. And you know what I do then? I keep quiet, just like you do. Some people can't do that, you know. They can't handle silence. They have to talk and talk and talk. But what they don't understand is that part of talking is to shut up every once in a while. That's what makes it a conversation. So, in that respect you're a good conversationalist.”

            The rogue looked at Bernhard and managed a little smile. He didn't say anything, but his smile was genuine. Bernhard liked that about him. He thought he had met too many people in his life who didn't know how to act genuinely, without trying to impress anyone, especially him.

            Bernhard was a respectable senior, now retired, but his opinion was still reputable in his firm. For almost forty years he worked at a publishing house. As a university student he had landed an internship for one of their weekly papers. It was badly written and barely read, but that didn't matter to him. Soon he worked his way up from errand boy to assistant reporter. He was an eager young writer, always sitting on the edge of his chair, waiting for one good story, that one scoop that would catapult him into a secure position at the paper. Then, one day in spring, he was at the right place at the right time and saw a huge fight near the court house. He sensed a story and approached the scene with his notepad and pencil in his hands. He found out what had happened and wrote about it on his bus ride home. As soon as he arrived he typed his story and faxed it to the chief editor. The head of the local police station was attacked by some criminals he had put behind bars, and Bernhard was the first to cover the spectacle. His draft was forwarded to the main paper of the publishing house and earned him a temporary desk. As it turned out, the mayor had made some bad moves, and for the following months there was plenty material to cover. Bernhard worked hard and ended up with a permanent job at the paper.

            “Still don't want to talk?” he asked. Troublemaker shook his head. “Fair enough,” said the old man. “I can’t make you talk, can I? It’s not like we’re in some sort of complicated hostage situation or a political debate where everyone would expect you to have an argument prepared, with all the necessary background information and enough statements to stand tall against anything that is used against you. You have to calculate, and act strategically and logically.”

He pulled a block of chocolate from his jacket pocket and carefully removed the packaging. The rustling sound made the scoundrel look out the window nervously, which Bernhard, of course, noticed. “You know,” he said, “chocolate is chocolate everywhere in the world. I learned that from an Italian gentleman a long time ago. I was sitting in a café and one of the waiters said that to a French girl who looked very sad.”

He broke off a piece, looked at his quiet interlocutor and handed it to him. He took it and said thank you with his eyes. He didn't eat it right away, but waited until Bernhard took his first bite. Again, Bernhard noticed the gesture. He started to like the rogue. The two of them sat in silence, enjoying small pieces of Belgian milk chocolate.

            Suddenly a woman walked through the door and approached Bernhard’s table. “I’m really sorry, sir. Did he cause you any trouble?”

“No, not at all,” he answered. “We had a great talk. As far as I can tell, he is a very thoughtful young man. He’s perhaps a bit on the quiet side, but that doesn’t make him a bad person. If anything, it makes him a good listener.”

“Well,” said the woman, “for a baby of thirteen months he is certainly not always quiet. But we’re expecting his first words soon. Thank you again, sir, for looking after him.”

Bernhard smiled and said: “Please, don’t worry. It was my pleasure. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”  

Silence is Golden

Kirk and Jimmy found two seats on the upper floor, pretty much in the middle of the room. The music was loud, but they didn't mind. It was a long day and they were glad to be sitting down somewhere. In fact, on a Saturday night they were lucky to find two unoccupied stools. While Jimmy put down his bag and took off his jacket, Kirk quickly scanned the room. They were surrounded by young people, definitely younger than them. Old kids and young adults were sitting comfortably in little groups of friends, enjoying the dim lighting and the fast music they called house. Some had their feet on their tables and Kirk thought, that's probably not permitted.

The 1001 was an old warehouse building that was transformed into a huge bar kind of place. Outside, they sold savoury food and alcoholic drinks that people could take inside. They played contemporary music on a high volume and for many fashionable students in the east of the city it was a daily place-to-be. Jimmy had been there before and he liked the hustle and bustle, the energy that made him feel like a teenager again. When his childhood friend Kirk told him he would drop by for a few days, he decided to take him there.

The two of them grew up in a little town in West Germany. They went to the same Kindergarten and back then they had the same dream. They wanted to become pilots who flew from Argentina to Brazil, from China to Dubai. For some reason they went to different schools after that, and even though there were blank spots in their friendship they never lost track of one another. The Matchbox cars, the LEGO buildings, the love for old Hong Kong movies, Kirk and Jimmy shared a history that enabled them to sit in silence for a while and let their thoughts mingle with the busty sounds that emerged from the giant speakers.

After a late breakfast earlier that day they went separate ways in the afternoon. For it was his first time in London, Kirk went off to see some of the sights, although he wasn't after the sights themselves. It was the interactive side of things, the clash of tourism with the global phenomenon of pleasing people with the same old things, it was the behaviour of seemingly worldly people that he was interested in. He was fascinated by the contrast of famous attractions and authentic knowledge of a city, of every city that he visited.

Jimmy spent the afternoon in the library. Despite his age he was still a student and he felt his final thesis breathing down his neck. He spent several months in the city but kept thinking that he didn't make enough use of it. There was still so much to see and experience, he thought. But then, how can you tell if someone really knows a place or not. Every larger city has several faces. Infrastructure, demographics and social security, some call it the gap between wealth and poverty that marks the difference between each part. Jimmy loved to travel and he always used to say: “I don't want be a long-term visitor, I want to be a short-term resident.” In that respect, the two friends were quite similar.

For Kirk it felt somewhat unreal to be sitting there, eating a gorgeous beef burger and washing it down with gulps of cold beer. He was stunned by the contrast between Bond Street and Brick Lane. Jimmy was glad to see his friend having a good time, when suddenly the sofa behind them cleared up. Two noisy girls got up and left. The timing couldn't have been better. Jimmy secured the worn-out leather couch while Kirk went downstairs and brought back two fresh cans. They sat down and kicked their feet up. The deejay thankfully started to play classic hip hop and motivated a group of kids to dance. As they popped open their beers Kirk and Jimmy thought that life was really good at the moment. They leaned back in the deep cushions of their couch and listened to the music. Here's a little story that must be told, about two young brothers who got so much soul ...

The Lost Ticket

Ten thousand pounds is a lot of money, Andy thought. Money he could definitely use, considering how much he paid for rent, paid for food and his car every day. Ten thousand pounds was a lot of money. It wasn't the world, but it would refill his lungs with oxygen while he was trapped in this drowning car that his life had become. Damn it, he thought. For once I could pay the landlord on time, get him to shut up for at least three months. I could take Laura out for dinner, someplace nice, not too fancy, I don't want to spoil her, but some French restaurant with a separate wine menu and all that shit, prove to her that I’m not the failure that she thinks I am. He was nervous, couldn’t stand still and walked up and down the room instead. The wooden floor was quietly complaining, it was old and had been walked up and down on a million times before. At the window he came to a halt. He put down his revolver on the window sill and opened the blinds with his thumb and index finger. How the hell did I end up in this mess.

The apartment was on the fifth floor of an old residential building with no elevator, he had to carry the old bastard up the stairs. It was close to the abandoned train station that most trains don’t even stop at anymore. The whole neighbourhood – once an expensive quarter – was now rundown and poor like a long-forgotten suit in the back of a dusty closet, full of wrinkles and its colour slowly fading. Andy looked at the building on the other side of the street. It was a brick house with tall windows. The windows had tiny bright-coloured hand prints on them, traces left behind by playful children. They made him think about his future, made him imagine a life with his own wife and kids. They made him think about Laura. Together they would break out and start all over again. Far away from here, in another city, perhaps even another country. She always wanted to see Paris, he thought. The afternoon sun appeared from behind a cloud. Andy let the blinds snap back together and the room filled with filtered sunlight. 

Andy picked up the revolver and wiped away a tear with the same hand. “Hey, you old fuck,” he said. He pulled up a chair next to Frank, who was sitting tied to the radiator. What the hell am I doing here, Andy thought. He’s just an old man. Why would he steal from the boss, why would he be so stupid? He should know better, he’s been in this business his whole life. “Why’d you do it, old man? Tell me, why did you steal from Mr. Eric and put me in this fucking mess?” Frank remained silent, breathing heavily. Just like my old man, Andy thought. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Frank. Just tell me why you did it.” 

     Frank coughed twice and cleared his throat. “You know,” he started, “I was once exactly like you, Andy. Ambitious and full of pride. Also, full of fear.”  

     “What the fuck are you talking about?” Andy yelled, but his voice was shaking.

     “I don’t blame you. I understand that you have to do what you think is best for you. You have a career, a lifetime ahead of you. Perhaps you have a girl you want to take care of.” He coughed again, twice, and continued, “No, I don’t blame you, kid. You’ve done everything right, everything you’ve been asked to do. But listen, I have something I want to ask you, too. What the hell are you still doing – ” 

A hard knock on the door shuts him up. Andy froze and stared at the entrance. Another angry knock, “Open the fucking door!” The voice was followed by a pounding fist. Andy jumped up and ran to the door to open it. It was old Jimmy, followed by Mr. Eric. He looked at Andy, looked at him hard. Andy was overwhelmed by the situation. His boss took his revolver and said: “What the fuck took you so long?” Not even waiting for an answer he pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat. “This is yours. Now piss off, son.” 

     Andy took the envelope without checking its contents. His boss slowly walked past him. He hesitated, and finally said: “What’s gonna happen to the old man?” 

     “What did you just say?” Mr. Eric turned around, pointing the gun at Andy. “You better get the fuck out of here, boy. And close the door behind you, before I change my mind.” 

Andy backed off into the stairway. He shut the door and took a deep breath. What the hell just happened, he thought. His heart was racing. Damn Andy, what the hell was that? He opened the envelope and counted the bills. Ten thousand pounds. He tucked it in his jacket pocket and started walking. Then, out of nowhere, a gunshot. Andy stopped. The whole world stopped. He knew what had happened, but he couldn't believe it. He couldn't breathe, but he had to keep moving. He resumed walking, climbing down the stairs. His knees were shaking, but he had to get away. He fell out of the building, into the street. I’m sorry, Frank, he thought. His eyes filled with tears, he couldn't help it. But this time he didn’t wipe them away.

Arthur's Pain

„Listen, there's something I want to say before we do anything. And believe me, this is the hardest decision of my life. I'm crazy about you, and I know that under different circumstances we would be perfect for each other. You're so sweet, so unbelievably sweet, and I think that's part of the problem. I guess I'm a sweet tooth,” Arthur said and smiled a nervous smile. “My god, the moment I first lay my eyes on you, I could tell that you meant trouble.“ He let out a deep sigh, thinking about the seriousness of the matter. He couldn't believe the situation he found himself in. How could this happen, he thought.

He looked out the window, if for no other reason then at least to avoid eye contact. It was the first sunny day in weeks. The sky was exceptionally blue and the wind felt brisk but not so cold anymore. On his way to the café Arthur even thought he could taste a hint of spring in the air. People were wearing lighter clothes and little smiles on their faces, children were licking ice cream cones and chasing pigeons. The cars driving by were reflecting sunshine, multiplying its rays in all directions. One of them met Arthur's eyes and made him squint.

  
“You know,” he continued, now looking down at his nervous hands, “I'm married. Happily married. And I love my wife very much. Tina and I look out for each other, make sure that we don't make any mistakes. That's why I feel so bad.” With a cotton handkerchief he dabbed away traces of guilt from his forehead. “I mean, it's not too late, we technically haven't done anything wrong yet. But the problem is, I mean, here you are, and that's bad enough, right? I got you here and I'm looking at you right now, aren't I? My god, how am I going to explain all this to Tina? She will be tremendously upset with me. Have you got now self-control, she'll say. How can I ever trust you again, I can already hear her say.” Arthur shook his head.

A waitress walked passed their table and collected empty dishes. “Are you okay, sir?” she asked on her way back. “Can I get you anything else?” Arthur looked up and watched her put his coffee cup and saucer on her tray; the two sugar cubes were still neatly wrapped. “No, thank you,” he said, “everything's fine.” The girl smiled again, this time with a bit of sympathy. When the waitress left, Arthur said: “I just couldn't resist you. You and your foreign name. French, isn't it? And the way you're dressed, just beautiful, so golden brown. How could anyone resist you.”

Suddenly the door opened and for a few seconds the previously muted sound of the street was loudly audible. It was Tina. As she approached his table Arthur froze. His eyes moved around the table, unable to make anything disappear. Tina sat down and her smile immediately faded.

   “Arthur! Are you out of your mind?” she said. “What were you thinking?” Arthur remained silent. “What, did you think I'd never find out?” She was genuinely upset, but she kept her disappointment caged.

   “You have every right to be mad at me,” he said.

   “Mad? I think you're the one who's mad! Don't make me cause a scene, my dear. And it's not the first time, either. I can't believe you went behind my back!” She looked at the table in disgust. “I thought we could trust each other. Look at this little –,” she was searching for words, “Arthur, what is this?”

   “It's called pain au chocolat. It's French and –”

   “I don't care if it's French. The last time it was a waffle from Belgium, the time before that it was a cake from Russia, and the time before that it was some treat from Asia. I can't let you out of sight for five minutes without worrying about you.”

    “Are you still mad?”
  “Of course I'm still mad,” she shouted, then calmed her self again. “But apparently I can never be mad enough. Honey, you're a diabetic. You know what that means. You must think about the consequences. I mean, you're a grown man and I can't loose you to a French whatever.”

   “I'm so sorry, honey. It's called pain au chocolat.”

Valentine's Day

"Hey, hi! How are you?" said Jake, who recognised a little insecurity in his voice. He suddenly felt like he should say something else, just to cover his anxiety. "I'm so glad to see you here. My gosh, what a coincidence, ha ha." 

Fake laughs weren't Jake's strength, and it wasn't really a coincidence that he ran into Esther that afternoon. In fact, Jake had been waiting for her to come out of the building since after lunch. He was walking up and down the parking lot, wearing his new leather shoes, always close to the car he knew she was riding - a blue Volkswagen, he sure knew. He also kept an eagle's eye on the heavy doors, and indeed, after they opened for the hundredth time, Esther walked out and over to her car, which is, of course, where they met. 

"Hi Jake, what are you doing here?" She noticed he was nervous, but for some reason she let him believe that his acting was convincing. "Such a coincidence."

"Right? Ha ha," he opened and closed his hands several times, "Oh, you know, now that we've met, erm, I actually meant to talk to you about something. Do you have a minute?" 

"Now? I mean, now?" she was and she wasn't surprised. The moment she saw him, Esther sensed that he wanted to talk to her - that's why she knew what was coming -, but as an overall phenomenon, which is seeing Jake outside of work, outside of the very building she just left, she wasn't prepared for this at all. "Sure, what's up?" she finally said. And quietly she added: "Just, please don't call me by my first name, you know, we're not supposed to do that here. I mean, we are in different positions and, you know, people could hear us."

"Of course, I understand, Miss Johnson, but I have a very important something to tell you and I would really appreciate it if you would let me finish." Jake suddenly felt a rush of confidence growing inside his chest. Partly because he knew he had already said too much to escape into a swift wave of small-talk, and partly because he had played and replayed this scene over and over again in his head, so that he actually knew what he was about to say. "Listen, Esther, we've known each other for over three years now. I remember when I first saw you. You were wearing a white blouse and a black skirt and only little make-up, which I thought was very nice, and when you walked through those doors for the first time, everybody looked at you with huge eyes. It was a really exciting day, I remember it like it was just last week. Well, and given the history that we have built over those years, I mean, all those great talks and the little jokes, you know, I can't help but realise how much I like you. And I think I always did, since the day you first came into that building. I know, it's probably a bit of a - and believe me, I've thought about this a lot - a bit of a surprise to you, but I think ... I mean I know, I'm in love with you. Very much, Miss Johnson."

Esther was speechless. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, unable to say anything for a while, trying to comprehend what just happened. "Jake," she finally said, "You're thirteen. And I'm your teacher. I'm double your age." 

"But I love you, Miss Esther." Jake was desperate. "And what does age matter anyway? You're my English teacher, not my maths teacher."

"That's not the point, Jake." Esther smiled at his last attempt to win her over.

"But today is Valentine's Day," he said, looking down at his feet, "and you're my Valentine!" 

The Reason Why

"Because I walk the world is spinning, and because I breathe everything else is alive." That's what Marty told himself every morning, over and over again. When he washed his face and looked in the mirror, when he ate his cereals and left over the sweet milk at the end, when he walked to school, especially when he walked to school.

"You're a fucking geek", that's what he was called when he entered the classroom. A fucking geek. He had heard it so often that it didn't hurt anymore. He got used to the sound of it. His classmates had different ways to greet him in the morning, it wasn't always the same. Other variations were "stupid moron" or "useless piece of shit", but except for "shut the fuck up", which he liked because of its straightforwardness and also because it didn't so much offend him or any features of his personality directly, he definitely prefered "fucking geek". 

"If you think about it," he once told his teacher, "it's not all that bad." Miss Parsons had overheard the shouting one day and asked Marty to visit her in her office after class. She was rather concerned about her student. "You know, Marty," she said, "I admire your attitude, I really do, but do you understand that what the other boys are saying to you is quite harsh?"

Marty nodded and couldn't hide a little smirk. "I know what it means, Miss Parsons, but the way I see it, the word geek is not so much an insult anymore." He waited for a brief moment, expecting his teacher to interrupt him, but she didn't. She was a good listener, and that was one of the reasons why he liked her so much. He continued. "Recent studies on linguistic trends have shown that the word 'geek' has undergone some changes in the past. While it had only negative connotations before, it has become almost a fashionable expression now."

When Miss Parsons touched her glasses Marty knew it was a sign of interest and felt encouraged to say more. "In modern youth culture to be called a geek actually requires several qualities, for example, being very knowledgeable in computers or science or computer science. So, it's really sort of a compliment." Miss Parsons was impressed. The young teacher being a sociologist was intrigued by Marty's sophisticated way of dealing with his situation. "If you put it that way," she said, "I guess you have a point." 

For Marty that was more than just what it meant. For him it was the highest possible compliment. And the thought of him impressing his teacher got him so excited that he kept talking. "And the word 'fucking', Miss Parsons. Grammatically speaking it means that I'm having sexual intercourse. And that, you will have to agree, can't be a bad thing, can it?" Miss Parsons got up and looked at Marty very differently now. He didn't understand the sudden change of air and silently repeated his last few words. The smile on his face faded.

"Oh no, Miss Parsons, I'm sorry," he stuttered. "I didn't, I mean, you and I -" That's when she pointed to the door and said, "You need to get out of my office, young man." Marty grew anxious, defeated by the look on the woman's pretty face. "But, Miss Parsons," he started again. "Out, now!" she barked. The young man turned around and approached the door. "Why can't I just shut the fuck up?" he thought. He closed the door behind him and faced the hall, an endless cold corridor. "I'm such a stupid moron," he cursed himself.

For a moment he stood still, reconstructing the conversation with Miss Parsons. When people started looking at him he snapped out of his thoughts. Slowly he moved his heavy feet and put one in front of the other. Soon he found his room, but for some reason he couldn't go in. Instead, he kept walking. Past the next classroom and past the toilets, past the cafeteria and past the janitor's room. He reached the main exit and looked out the little window in the door. "Because I walk the world is spinning, and because I breathe everything else is alive."

It's a New Year

Everything is quiet. Frank opens his eyes and sees nothing. As if the world had come to an end. Just like the people on TV had predicted. He watched a documentary about the new year conspiracy the other day. Scary thought, he thought. And the report was quite convincing, too. Just imagine. Or better don't. For a second Frank considers to start a panic, but then changes his mind. Suddenly a light beam moves across the ceiling. He follows it with his eyes, concentrated, to figure out what it is. But before his pupils get used to it it's gone. The remote sound of a sirene finally lets him relax. It was only a car, driving by on the street outside of his apartment. What a relief. He closes his eyes again, but how could he possibly sleep? That was just too much action for him, his heart is still pounding like the heart of a young man in love. 

Natalie. He hasn't thought about her in many years. The illuminated digits on his radio alarm clock say, 03:52. That's a cruel time to be awake, he thinks. A time that is past late and yet long before early. He rubs his face with his hands, then releases a deep sigh. His mind is trapped, between his ex-wife and the Mayan Prophecy. His body, too. He's too tired to properly get up and start working on his story, but not tired enough to go right back to sleep. I could read some, he thinks. But he won't. Even though he really likes the book that he's currently carrying around under his arm. He usually reads a lot, but at the moment he's fed up with letters and words. No, instead of reading he decides to go to the toilet.

A moment later Frank finds himself in the bathroom, hesitating. Standing in front of the sink he's not sure anymore why he came here. He double-checks, but he can't register any natural urge to use the toilet. He sits on the side of the white ceramic bath tub. What am I doing here? he asks himself. What am I doing with my life? Confused he looks into the mirror and finds a depressing picture, the picture of his depressed face. He ends up brushing his teeth. The sound of the bristles scrubbing his dentrition reminds him of apples. He wonders why. Subconsciously he opens the window with his unoccupied hand. Only a bit. A cold breeze surprises him and lets him shiver. But he enjoys the fresh air. 

Outside, everything is sleeping. The tall tree that was here long before Frank was. The little playground that the kids don't come to play at anymore, they're too old now. And the building on the other side, too, looks like it is sleeping. Lights out, eyes closed. A funny sound pierces the dark silence. Frank snaps out of his thoughts, for a moment he was lost. He spits out the old toothpaste-saliva mix and listens more closely, hoping to hear it again. Eager not to make a sound he ladles a bit of water into his mouth, gargles carefully and lets it drip into the sink hole. With a fresh towel he wipes his mouth, and right when he thinks it was nothing he hears it again. He opens the window wide and waits. And there it is again. This time he hears it perfectly clear. The singing of a bird. 

Frank smiles and closes the window quietly, because he doesn't want to scare the bird away. How odd, he thinks. A bird singing at this hour, he must be confused. Frank remembers another report he saw on TV. Global warming causes flora and fauna to mistake winter for spring. That must be it, he thinks while he walks back to his bedroom. Or maybe he can't sleep, either. How comforting, Frank thinks. He yawns into his pillow and slowly crawls back under the blanket, smiling at the chirping sound that is still in his head. It's a new year, he suddenly realizes. Another yawn, and soon he's looking at the ceiling with his eyes closed. It's a new year, he thinks, I'll think about it tomorrow. For now he wants to think about the bird, his friend who can't sleep, either. It's a new year, he mumbles, and I wonder what it will bring.