meine frau (p2)
p1
description: the relationship that led to the inevitable marriage proposal
In the clustered corner of the office, a line formed in front of the desk. Behind it was you.
With your pin curls and your peach dress you were a flare in a sea of bureaucracy. He took a number and waited behind an older man.
When it was his turn you had asked for his papers and he handed them over.
“One form is missing,” you didn’t look up.
“I wasn’t told”
You shrugged and instructed him to come back tomorrow.
You were frivolous, the way he had decided most women were. You moved past the beige and khakis of the uniformed men in the office with an infuriating grace, your heels echoing with each step.
And then the parties. You were always accompanied by an overeager friend who chuckled at every joke officers made but not you. You nursed your drink, gave side looks and said little.
He recognised you from the registry office but never bothered to speak to you. That changed on the third gathering.
“Herr Lieutenant, you spoke of victory through sacrifice,” you had said. Dieter watched across the room. “Could you clarify which sacrifices will no longer be necessary once victory is achieved?”
It was delivered with such innocence, such womanly ignorance, that no one dared to call it insolence.
Herr Meier’s face had been red for the rest of the evening. You looked pleased.
“She ought to be in uniform,” one of them said with a boyish smile that belonged to schoolyards. He rolled his glass between his palms. “Running an office instead of warming a chair behind a desk.”
“Give her a pencil and a roomful of men,” another said, amused, “and she’d have them standing straighter than any filing cabinet.”
The third man —older, with silver at his temples— folded his gloves with slow, deliberate care. When he spoke, the others went quiet.
“That wasn’t courage. That was a woman who’s never been properly corrected.”
No one laughed.
“Give her a little power and she’d be unbearable,” he went on. “Best keep that sort busy with papers and children — or remind her what she ought to be grateful for.”
There was a pause.
“She is easy on the eye, though,” the first man offered, softer now.
“sharp tongues usually are.”
Dieter looked again and found you staring out the window.
The next time he went to get his papers done, he looked for you. It wasn’t hard to find you. Tucked into your office, in a red dress too cheerful for Berlin you were explaining something to a senior clerk.
The older man’s face was fixed, he looked more like a student than a supervisor. Then you dismissed him in a way no employee should.
Dieter passed you his papers and you took them without a word.
He loomed over you for a good five minutes before you bothered to glance at him.
“Only one more signature and you’re good to go,” you offered a tight smile before looking back at the papers you stamped.
“Here,” you gave him your pen to sign. It was still warm from your hand.
“Do you have obligations on Friday evening?” Dieter asked and he could feel the woman behind him listen more closely.
“We close at six,” You said, handing him his papers. “If you come before, I can check on it for you”
For a moment he held your gaze, assessing whether you were truly that oblivious.
You were.
“Thank you,” he gave you a polite nod.
On Friday as you walked down the steps of the office and fixed your gloves you saw him.
Leaning against a street light he threw his cigarette on the pavement before extinguishing it under his boot.
He showed up in a coat, not a uniform. No papers in hand.
“Hi”
“Hello,” his voice was measured as always. He took a step forward.
“No uniform today?”
“I thought you said that you finished at six”
You walked down the last two steps of the stairs.
“I am the kind of girl who leaves work early”
He looked at you, taking in your posture and clothes as if deciding where to place you. His gaze stayed on the fur lining of your gloves a little longer before raising to meet your eyes.
“Are you hungry?”
You raised an eyebrow and tried not to laugh. Glancing around the street, you watched as everyone was going to their business, oblivious to this strange encounter. “I could eat.”
“Good.”
In the dim lit restaurant you sat across him in your cream shirt with the bow on the front. The pianist played something slightly off. The waiter moved with exaggerated care.
You rambled about the friend that dragged you to those parties —Edith— who was determined to get married before her sister. You were bored and he knew.
His gaze flickered to the ashtray which after two courses was now overflowing with ashes of your cigarette. Dieter reassured himself it was a habit he could manage.
You flicked your cigarette, your hands delicate with an ink stain on your inner wrist.
“You must be very brave.” You said and his eyes snapped at you. You gave him a smile, now that you got his attention.
He leaned back in his seat, straightening his back.
“I am talking about your profession.”
“Thank you.” He said hesitantly, his face a mix of pride and surprise.
“I don’t think I could wear khakis for the rest of my life.”
His smile dropped and there was a tightness around his eyes. He should have expected that.
“I occasionally switch to black.”
“Really?” You raised an eyebrow, just enough to look amused. “Is that a thing? Consideration of the washing days or something.”
“No. Not really.”
“Oh.”
By the third date, you were in his bed.
“the kind of relationship that allowed a quick fuck”—you’d said, like a rule you were setting instead of a door you were opening.
You hid behind vulgarity and casualness. He let you believe it worked.
You never called his office. You never asked him to take you anywhere.never waited for him to make plans. If he didn’t come to you, you simply disappeared back into your life.
And then there was a kind of brashness in you— somewhere between your coral nail polish, your bows, and the florals of your dresses. You smoked like a soldier, you never stopped at one glass of wine, you argued about Caligari like a film critic.
Each date ended with him wanting to slap you but he kissed you instead.
It was absurd, maddening. How could a woman who was so efficient at paperwork be like this?
One night when you were still getting accustomed to his bed you looked up at him, suddenly serious.
“Is this what they mean by intrusion in the military?” You asked.
He froze.
He was inside of you.
He was furious. You were insulting his most private moment. He was more furious at himself for laughing. It took him a week to call you again.
It took a couple of months for the arrangement to start feeling like a problem.
The gathering was warm, a bit too warm for a Berlin evening so close to curfew. The laughter buzzed under low ceilings and polite toast.
You slipped away to the balcony for air, a cigarette tucked between your fingers.
Dieter remained in the circle recounting old victories and younger regrets.
Moments later when he stepped outside, you were gone.
No farewell. No wave. Just the taste of smoke in the night air.
He found the echo of your absence lingering where your silhouette had been.
Then the announcement came. He was to be posted in France.
You had dinner in the place his secretary always made reservations. You ordered the wine you liked and stole a potato from his plate. He let you complain about your superior and fill the silences he never did.
“I am leaving for France.”
Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth. “When?”
“In two months,” he tapped ash into the tray. “Perhaps sooner.”
You frowned, studying the crease that formed between your brows as if you might smooth the thought away.
“And you’ll take the train? I thought you hated it.”
“Is the train the issue?” His voice sharpened.
“Is there even an issue?”
He looked down at the wine spilled across the white tablecloth. You’d knocked the glass over yourself.
“Where in France?”
“Wherever I am needed.”
“Paris?”
“Perhaps.”
“I should watch out for the französische Huren, then,” you said, pleased with yourself.
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
“And how does it work?” you went on. “Do you stay there forever? Do you come back?”
“Why are you asking?”
“For the macarons, obviously.”
He studied you, slow and deliberate. Once, he might have called it ignorance. Now he knew better.
The waiter appeared. “Would you like dessert? We have an excellent tiramisu tonight.”
“You should marry me,” Dieter said.
You blinked. “No?”
A laugh nearly escaped you. He didn’t move.
“I can come back later,” the waiter offered.
“No,” you both said.
Silence stretched between you.
“Do you have something French?” you asked.
Two crème brûlée later, you walked home.
The wine made you warm. You kept to the street while Dieter stayed on the pavement, hands clasped behind his back, gaze fixed ahead.
“Why didn’t you have your driver take us?” you asked.
“I want to see Berlin while I can.”
You didn’t believe him.
You stopped at your building. He didn’t.
“I’d invite you up,” you said, fumbling for your keys, “but my father’s home.”
“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”
“No?” You nudged his arm with your purse. “Too much pasta?”
He smiled — but not at you.
He stepped closer.
You braced for the slap. You were certain of it.
Instead, he took your face in his hands.
“Be good,” he said, and kissed your cheek.
Your fingers tightened around the key in your palm.
“I will try.”
“No, you won’t,” he murmured, brushing his lips against yours. Not a lover’s kiss. Something closer to a benediction. “Goodnight.”
When you reached your window, he was already gone.
You thought that was the end of it.
No macarons. No Dieter.
