“I saw you do some rather impressive dancing just now,” he said with his cute German accent, nodding back to the wooden seats I had just come from.
“Oh, you know, I don’t say no to rides from strangers,” I hear myself say. What. Why did those words come out of my mouth. Anyway, roll with it…
“You been here long?” I ask, changing the subject.
“In line at the bar? Yes. I think Schröder was still Bundeskanzler when I first joined the queue here.” Outside, I laugh, but inside, I struggle to remember when anyone other than Angie was the chancellor. “Actually, let’s order for each other, who ever gets to the front first. You might have more luck than me,” he says, and takes a cheeky glance at my shirt. “I’m getting 3 Beck’s, what about you? One for you and your, äh, friend?”
“Oh, that was a one-time dance partner. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that’s the motto of all the kids these days, eh?” I reply.
“Ah, I meant the guy you were with earlier?” he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth a bit too quickly. So, he had noticed Dario. That’s another darling thing with the Germans, they don’t immediately ask if someone is your boyfriend or not, they know you can be out with anyone—
“Is he your, ähm, boyfriend?”
Well. Every rule has its exceptions.
“Oh, Dario! He’s my housemate,” I explain. “And besides, he bats for the other team.”
I know enough housemates-turned-lovers in Berlin that I feel the need clarify, lest the Frisian get skittish.
“What do you mean, bats?” he asks.
“I mean, he plays on the other side of the rainbow,” I clarify.
Apparently not well, since his brow furrows even deeper.
“He couldn’t be more flaming if he got into pyrotechnics,” I offer.
“Is that a game?”
“Er ist schwul.”
“Ah!” he smiles, finally understanding.
My eternal problem in foreign countries: as soon as I start drinking, my capacity for speaking other languages falls to zero, and my assumption that everyone else speaks perfect English reaches a maximum. Jesus, how on earth did I communicate with this babe the last time we met?
Oh, that’s right… we didn’t really. I had met him at a house party sometime after midnight and fell hard for those baby blues. I could have had an engaging conversation with a doorknob at that point, the amount of party glitter I had indulged in. It was only while dancing later at the club that my body took over and made a move on the Frisian.
Anywho, it was my time to inquire.
“What about you? Those lovely ladies your sister-wives?”
He laughs, “No, no, those are friends from my village in Ostfriesen. They are visiting me in Berlin.”
“I hope you are showing them a good time, now,” I say.
“Yes, of course. Actually, didn’t you say you were going to do that for me?” he teases. So, he remembered!
“You didn’t get my carrier pigeons?” I feign shock. “I must have sent one per day!”
He smiles, “Maybe I can find you on Facebook, yes? Under what name?”
“No pseudonyms for me on Facebook; I’m afraid I’m not that deutsch yet,” I reply, then give him the details. Success.
“Was wirds sein?” the barman looks to Fabian.
“Ähm, fünf Bier, danke.”
I take out a €10 bill and put it in his front jeans pocket, lingering my hand in the tight space just a moment longer than necessary.
“That’s too much!” he protests, as the barman pops the caps off the bottles.
I pick up two of them. “I guess you owe me another beer, then,” I smile, biting my lip, then walk away.
It dawns on me that I have beer in my hand when, originally, I had wanted water, but I can hardly backtrack now. If I did things right, Fabian should be checking my ass out right about now as I wander off. It would be ever so rude of me to interrupt the view. Instead, I wander towards the bathrooms.
Right on cue, Dario walks out, positively glowing. I hand him a beer and we enter Katerblau’s garden, settling down in some comfy old sofa overlooking the water. We wrap ourselves under a blanket of questionable cleanliness that someone has left here, and cuddle like roosting chickens.
“Babe,” I say, “you are glowing like a pregnant woman. What did you get up to?”
He sighs loudly, grinning from ear to ear. “Shenanigans. You?”
“Same,” I say, and lean my head on his shoulder.
Before us, the Spree moves along, illuminated by the first soft kisses of sunlight.
I’m back at the central hall of Katerblau, the main artery that connects the entrance, the two main club rooms and the outdoor patio. Here, I’m lounging on some wooden seats between the bar and the outside, taking a drag off a spliff some British laddies were kind enough to share with me.
“I fucking love Berlin, man!” one exclaims to the room at large, pupils large as saucers. The Brits do adore their party glitter, and with the amount he indulged in, I wonder if there is anything in the world he wouldn’t profess to love.
I’m waiting here for Dario, who went to the bathroom half an hour ago. Knowing that darling, he is probably on his knees in a dark corner, making some dashing acquaintance a very happy man indeed.
Dario is wonderfully thoughtful and present as a friend, but I swear the boy goes ADD for dick. I’m not annoyed by this, since, truth be told, I get distracted by people all the time when I’m out. I tell my friends I’m just going for a glass of water, and they’re liable to spot me an hour later dancing on the roof with some fabulous Chileans and a bucket of fairy lights.
“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN?”
An intense voice shakes me from my daydreaming. It belongs to a man, and his face, equal parts serious and concerned, is unnervingly close to mine. He repeats his phrase; it’s less a question than a stated desperation.
“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN? YES?”
I laugh. His accent is something between Polish and French, and he doesn’t seem dangerous, just very intent on spinning, whatever he means by that.
The British are amused, “Go on, Holly!”
I jump to my feet, “Mister, it seems you need to spin. How can I help?”
“OK!” he says, clapping his hands together, serious as a general about to address his troops.
“Turn,” he instructs. I oblige, and turn my back to him.
He lines up to me, so we are back to back, and links our arms together. My inner 6-year-old surmises what’s in store.
“NOW, WE SPIN!”
With a sudden jerk, he leans forward, hoisting me into the air, and spins and spins and spins beneath me. I am sure my legs flailing about looks less than elegant, but the whole thing is too delightfully random to spare another thought on that. I can’t see anything but a wild blur, hear anything but the Brits cheering us on, feel anything but the rush of air and the heat of the strong, strange man beneath me.
Then, as suddenly as the spinning began, it stops, and I am back on my feet.
The concern is gone from the dude’s face, replaced by a relieved smile.
“PERFECT.”
And with that, he scurries off into one of the club rooms. Well, then.
I take a bow before the giddy Brits, then head off to the bar. Alcohol, weed, and impersonating a dreidel all took a toll on my poor stomach, and Momma needs a glass of water. The bar is packed, so I squeeze in where I can, already mentally preparing for the annoyed face of the German bartender when I ask for tap water.
An elbow pokes into mine.
“Na, du?”
The Frisian! Sans the glitter twins I saw him with earlier. Perfect.
“I saw you do some rather impressive dancing just now,” he said with his cute German accent, nodding back to the wooden seats I had just come from.
“Oh, you know, I don’t say no to rides from strangers,” I hear myself say. What. Why did those words come out of my mouth. Anyway, roll with it…
“You been here long?” I ask, changing the subject.
“In line at the bar? Yes. I think Schröder was still Bundeskanzler when I first joined the queue here.” Outside, I laugh, but inside, I struggle to remember when anyone other than Angie was the chancellor. “Actually, let’s order for each other, who ever gets to the front first. You might have more luck than me,” he says, and takes a cheeky glance at my shirt. “I’m getting 3 Beck’s, what about you? One for you and your, äh, friend?”
“Oh, that was a one-time dance partner. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that’s the motto of all the kids these days, eh?” I reply.
“Ah, I meant the guy you were with earlier?” he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth a bit too quickly. So, he had noticed Dario. That’s another darling thing with the Germans, they don’t immediately ask if someone is your boyfriend or not, they know you can be out with anyone—
“Is he your, ähm, boyfriend?”
Well. Every rule has its exceptions.
“Oh, Dario! He’s my housemate,” I explain. “And besides, he bats for the other team.”
I know enough housemates-turned-lovers in Berlin that I feel the need clarify, lest the Frisian get skittish.
“What do you mean, bats?” he asks.
“I mean, he plays on the other side of the rainbow,” I clarify.
Apparently not well, since his brow furrows even deeper.
“He couldn’t be more flaming if he got into pyrotechnics,” I offer.
“Is that a game?”
“Er ist schwul.”
“Ah!” he smiles, finally understanding.
My eternal problem in foreign countries: as soon as I start drinking, my capacity for speaking other languages falls to zero, and my assumption that everyone else speaks perfect English reaches a maximum. Jesus, how on earth did I communicate with this babe the last time we met?
Oh, that’s right… we didn’t really. I had met him at a house party sometime after midnight and fell hard for those baby blues. I could have had an engaging conversation with a doorknob at that point, the amount of party glitter I had indulged in. It was only while dancing later at the club that my body took over and made a move on the Frisian.
Anywho, it was my time to inquire.
“What about you? Those lovely ladies your sister-wives?”
He laughs, “No, no, those are friends from my village in Ostfriesen. They are visiting me in Berlin.”
“I hope you are showing them a good time, now,” I say.
“Yes, of course. Actually, didn’t you say you were going to do that for me?” he teases. So, he remembered!
“You didn’t get my carrier pigeons?” I feign shock. “I must have sent one per day!”
He smiles, “Maybe I can find you on Facebook, yes? Under what name?”
“No pseudonyms for me on Facebook; I’m afraid I’m not that deutsch yet,” I reply, then give him the details. Success.
“Was wirds sein?” the barman looks to Fabian.
“Ähm, fünf Bier, danke.”
I take out a €10 bill and put it in his front jeans pocket, lingering my hand in the tight space just a moment longer than necessary.
“That’s too much!” he protests, as the barman pops the caps off the bottles.
I pick up two of them. “I guess you owe me another beer, then,” I smile, biting my lip, then walk away.
It dawns on me that I have beer in my hand when, originally, I had wanted water, but I can hardly backtrack now. If I did things right, Fabian should be checking my ass out right about now as I wander off. It would be ever so rude of me to interrupt the view. Instead, I wander towards the bathrooms.
Right on cue, Dario walks out, positively glowing. I hand him a beer and we enter Katerblau’s garden, settling down in some comfy old sofa overlooking the water. We wrap ourselves under a blanket of questionable cleanliness that someone has left here, and cuddle like roosting chickens.
“Babe,” I say, “you are glowing like a pregnant woman. What did you get up to?”
He sighs loudly, grinning from ear to ear. “Shenanigans. You?”
“Same,” I say, and lean my head on his shoulder.
Before us, the Spree moves along, illuminated by the first soft kisses of sunlight.
“I saw you do some rather impressive dancing just now,” he said with his cute German accent, nodding back to the wooden seats I had just come from.
“Oh, you know, I don’t say no to rides from strangers,” I hear myself say. What. Why did those words come out of my mouth. Anyway, roll with it…
“You been here long?” I ask, changing the subject.
“In line at the bar? Yes. I think Schröder was still Bundeskanzler when I first joined the queue here.” Outside, I laugh, but inside, I struggle to remember when anyone other than Angie was the chancellor. “Actually, let’s order for each other, who ever gets to the front first. You might have more luck than me,” he says, and takes a cheeky glance at my shirt. “I’m getting 3 Beck’s, what about you? One for you and your, äh, friend?”
“Oh, that was a one-time dance partner. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that’s the motto of all the kids these days, eh?” I reply.
“Ah, I meant the guy you were with earlier?” he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth a bit too quickly. So, he had noticed Dario. That’s another darling thing with the Germans, they don’t immediately ask if someone is your boyfriend or not, they know you can be out with anyone—
“Is he your, ähm, boyfriend?”
Well. Every rule has its exceptions.
“Oh, Dario! He’s my housemate,” I explain. “And besides, he bats for the other team.”
I know enough housemates-turned-lovers in Berlin that I feel the need clarify, lest the Frisian get skittish.
“What do you mean, bats?” he asks.
“I mean, he plays on the other side of the rainbow,” I clarify.
Apparently not well, since his brow furrows even deeper.
“He couldn’t be more flaming if he got into pyrotechnics,” I offer.
“Is that a game?”
“Er ist schwul.”
“Ah!” he smiles, finally understanding.
My eternal problem in foreign countries: as soon as I start drinking, my capacity for speaking other languages falls to zero, and my assumption that everyone else speaks perfect English reaches a maximum. Jesus, how on earth did I communicate with this babe the last time we met?
Oh, that’s right… we didn’t really. I had met him at a house party sometime after midnight and fell hard for those baby blues. I could have had an engaging conversation with a doorknob at that point, the amount of party glitter I had indulged in. It was only while dancing later at the club that my body took over and made a move on the Frisian.
Anywho, it was my time to inquire.
“What about you? Those lovely ladies your sister-wives?”
He laughs, “No, no, those are friends from my village in Ostfriesen. They are visiting me in Berlin.”
“I hope you are showing them a good time, now,” I say.
“Yes, of course. Actually, didn’t you say you were going to do that for me?” he teases. So, he remembered!
“You didn’t get my carrier pigeons?” I feign shock. “I must have sent one per day!”
He smiles, “Maybe I can find you on Facebook, yes? Under what name?”
“No pseudonyms for me on Facebook; I’m afraid I’m not that deutsch yet,” I reply, then give him the details. Success.
“Was wirds sein?” the barman looks to Fabian.
“Ähm, fünf Bier, danke.”
I take out a €10 bill and put it in his front jeans pocket, lingering my hand in the tight space just a moment longer than necessary.
“That’s too much!” he protests, as the barman pops the caps off the bottles.
I pick up two of them. “I guess you owe me another beer, then,” I smile, biting my lip, then walk away.
It dawns on me that I have beer in my hand when, originally, I had wanted water, but I can hardly backtrack now. If I did things right, Fabian should be checking my ass out right about now as I wander off. It would be ever so rude of me to interrupt the view. Instead, I wander towards the bathrooms.
Right on cue, Dario walks out, positively glowing. I hand him a beer and we enter Katerblau’s garden, settling down in some comfy old sofa overlooking the water. We wrap ourselves under a blanket of questionable cleanliness that someone has left here, and cuddle like roosting chickens.
“Babe,” I say, “you are glowing like a pregnant woman. What did you get up to?”
He sighs loudly, grinning from ear to ear. “Shenanigans. You?”
“Same,” I say, and lean my head on his shoulder.
Before us, the Spree moves along, illuminated by the first soft kisses of sunlight
“I saw you do some rather impressive dancing just now,” he said with his cute German accent, nodding back to the wooden seats I had just come from.
“Oh, you know, I don’t say no to rides from strangers,” I hear myself say. What. Why did those words come out of my mouth. Anyway, roll with it…
“You been here long?” I ask, changing the subject.
“In line at the bar? Yes. I think Schröder was still Bundeskanzler when I first joined the queue here.” Outside, I laugh, but inside, I struggle to remember when anyone other than Angie was the chancellor. “Actually, let’s order for each other, who ever gets to the front first. You might have more luck than me,” he says, and takes a cheeky glance at my shirt. “I’m getting 3 Beck’s, what about you? One for you and your, äh, friend?”
“Oh, that was a one-time dance partner. Love ‘em and leave ‘em, that’s the motto of all the kids these days, eh?” I reply.
“Ah, I meant the guy you were with earlier?” he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth a bit too quickly. So, he had noticed Dario. That’s another darling thing with the Germans, they don’t immediately ask if someone is your boyfriend or not, they know you can be out with anyone—
“Is he your, ähm, boyfriend?”
Well. Every rule has its exceptions.
“Oh, Dario! He’s my housemate,” I explain. “And besides, he bats for the other team.”
I know enough housemates-turned-lovers in Berlin that I feel the need clarify, lest the Frisian get skittish.
“What do you mean, bats?” he asks.
“I mean, he plays on the other side of the rainbow,” I clarify.
Apparently not well, since his brow furrows even deeper.
“He couldn’t be more flaming if he got into pyrotechnics,” I offer.
“Is that a game?”
“Er ist schwul.”
“Ah!” he smiles, finally understanding.
My eternal problem in foreign countries: as soon as I start drinking, my capacity for speaking other languages falls to zero, and my assumption that everyone else speaks perfect English reaches a maximum. Jesus, how on earth did I communicate with this babe the last time we met?
Oh, that’s right… we didn’t really. I had met him at a house party sometime after midnight and fell hard for those baby blues. I could have had an engaging conversation with a doorknob at that point, the amount of party glitter I had indulged in. It was only while dancing later at the club that my body took over and made a move on the Frisian.
Anywho, it was my time to inquire.
“What about you? Those lovely ladies your sister-wives?”
He laughs, “No, no, those are friends from my village in Ostfriesen. They are visiting me in Berlin.”
“I hope you are showing them a good time, now,” I say.
“Yes, of course. Actually, didn’t you say you were going to do that for me?” he teases. So, he remembered!
“You didn’t get my carrier pigeons?” I feign shock. “I must have sent one per day!”
He smiles, “Maybe I can find you on Facebook, yes? Under what name?”
“No pseudonyms for me on Facebook; I’m afraid I’m not that deutsch yet,” I reply, then give him the details. Success.
“Was wirds sein?” the barman looks to Fabian.
“Ähm, fünf Bier, danke.”
I take out a €10 bill and put it in his front jeans pocket, lingering my hand in the tight space just a moment longer than necessary.
“That’s too much!” he protests, as the barman pops the caps off the bottles.
I pick up two of them. “I guess you owe me another beer, then,” I smile, biting my lip, then walk away.
It dawns on me that I have beer in my hand when, originally, I had wanted water, but I can hardly backtrack now. If I did things right, Fabian should be checking my ass out right about now as I wander off. It would be ever so rude of me to interrupt the view. Instead, I wander towards the bathrooms.
Right on cue, Dario walks out, positively glowing. I hand him a beer and we enter Katerblau’s garden, settling down in some comfy old sofa overlooking the water. We wrap ourselves under a blanket of questionable cleanliness that someone has left here, and cuddle like roosting chickens.
“Babe,” I say, “you are glowing like a pregnant woman. What did you get up to?”
He sighs loudly, grinning from ear to ear. “Shenanigans. You?”
“Same,” I say, and lean my head on his shoulder.
Before us, the Spree moves along, illuminated by the first soft kisses of sunlight.
I’m back at the central hall of Katerblau, the main artery that connects the entrance, the two main club rooms and the outdoor patio. Here, I’m lounging on some wooden seats between the bar and the outside, taking a drag off a spliff some British laddies were kind enough to share with me.
“I fucking love Berlin, man!” one exclaims to the room at large, pupils large as saucers. The Brits do adore their party glitter, and with the amount he indulged in, I wonder if there is anything in the world he wouldn’t profess to love.
I’m waiting here for Dario, who went to the bathroom half an hour ago. Knowing that darling, he is probably on his knees in a dark corner, making some dashing acquaintance a very happy man indeed.
Dario is wonderfully thoughtful and present as a friend, but I swear the boy goes ADD for dick. I’m not annoyed by this, since, truth be told, I get distracted by people all the time when I’m out. I tell my friends I’m just going for a glass of water, and they’re liable to spot me an hour later dancing on the roof with some fabulous Chileans and a bucket of fairy lights.
“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN?”
An intense voice shakes me from my daydreaming. It belongs to a man, and his face, equal parts serious and concerned, is unnervingly close to mine. He repeats his phrase; it’s less a question than a stated desperation.
“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN? YES?”
I laugh. His accent is something between Polish and French, and he doesn’t seem dangerous, just very intent on spinning, whatever he means by that.
The British are amused, “Go on, Holly!”
I jump to my feet, “Mister, it seems you need to spin. How can I help?”
“OK!” he says, clapping his hands together, serious as a general about to address his troops.
“Turn,” he instructs. I oblige, and turn my back to him.
He lines up to me, so we are back to back, and links our arms together. My inner 6-year-old surmises what’s in store.
“NOW, WE SPIN!”
With a sudden jerk, he leans forward, hoisting me into the air, and spins and spins and spins beneath me. I am sure my legs flailing about looks less than elegant, but the whole thing is too delightfully random to spare another thought on that. I can’t see anything but a wild blur, hear anything but the Brits cheering us on, feel anything but the rush of air and the heat of the strong, strange man beneath me.
Then, as suddenly as the spinning began, it stops, and I am back on my feet.
The concern is gone from the dude’s face, replaced by a relieved smile.
“PERFECT.”
And with that, he scurries off into one of the club rooms. Well, then.
I take a bow before the giddy Brits, then head off to the bar. Alcohol, weed, and impersonating a dreidel all took a toll on my poor stomach, and Momma needs a glass of water. The bar is packed, so I squeeze in where I can, already mentally preparing for the annoyed face of the German bartender when I ask for tap water.
An elbow pokes into mine.
“Na, du?”
The Frisian! Sans the glitter twins I saw him with earlier. Perfect.
I’m back at the central hall of Katerblau, the main artery that connects the entrance, the two main club rooms and the outdoor patio. Here, I’m lounging on some wooden seats between the bar and the outside, taking a drag off a spliff some British laddies were kind enough to share with me.
“I fucking love Berlin, man!” one exclaims to the room at large, pupils large as saucers. The Brits do adore their party glitter, and with the amount he indulged in, I wonder if there is anything in the world he wouldn’t profess to love.
I’m waiting here for Dario, who went to the bathroom half an hour ago. Knowing that darling, he is probably on his knees in a dark corner, making some dashing acquaintance a very happy man indeed.
Dario is wonderfully thoughtful and present as a friend, but I swear the boy goes ADD for dick. I’m not annoyed by this, since, truth be told, I get distracted by people all the time when I’m out. I tell my friends I’m just going for a glass of water, and they’re liable to spot me an hour later dancing on the roof with some fabulous Chileans and a bucket of fairy lights.
“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN?”
An intense voice shakes me from my daydreaming. It belongs to a man, and his face, equal parts serious and concerned, is unnervingly close to mine. He repeats his phrase; it’s less a question than a stated desperation.
“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN? YES?”
I laugh. His accent is something between Polish and French, and he doesn’t seem dangerous, just very intent on spinning, whatever he means by that.
The British are amused, “Go on, Holly!”
I jump to my feet, “Mister, it seems you need to spin. How can I help?”
“OK!” he says, clapping his hands together, serious as a general about to address his troops.
“Turn,” he instructs. I oblige, and turn my back to him.
He lines up to me, so we are back to back, and links our arms together. My inner 6-year-old surmises what’s in store.
“NOW, WE SPIN!”
With a sudden jerk, he leans forward, hoisting me into the air, and spins and spins and spins beneath me. I am sure my legs flailing about looks less than elegant, but the whole thing is too delightfully random to spare another thought on that. I can’t see anything but a wild blur, hear anything but the Brits cheering us on, feel anything but the rush of air and the heat of the strong, strange man beneath me.
Then, as suddenly as the spinning began, it stops, and I am back on my feet.
The concern is gone from the dude’s face, replaced by a relieved smile.
“PERFECT.”
And with that, he scurries off into one of the club rooms. Well, then.
I take a bow before the giddy Brits, then head off to the bar. Alcohol, weed, and impersonating a dreidel all took a toll on my poor stomach, and Momma needs a glass of water. The bar is packed, so I squeeze in where I can, already mentally preparing for the annoyed face of the German bartender when I ask for tap water.
An elbow pokes into mine.
“Na, du?”
The Frisian! Sans the glitter twins I saw him with earlier. Perfect.
I’m back at the central hall of Katerblau, the main artery that connects the entrance, the two main club rooms and the outdoor patio. Here, I’m lounging on some wooden seats between the bar and the outside, taking a drag off a spliff some British laddies were kind enough to share with me.
“I fucking love Berlin, man!” one exclaims to the room at large, pupils large as saucers. The Brits do adore their party glitter, and with the amount he indulged in, I wonder if there is anything in the world he wouldn’t profess to love.
I’m waiting here for Dario, who went to the bathroom half an hour ago. Knowing that darling, he is probably on his knees in a dark corner, making some dashing acquaintance a very happy man indeed.
Dario is wonderfully thoughtful and present as a friend, but I swear the boy goes ADD for dick. I’m not annoyed by this, since, truth be told, I get distracted by people all the time when I’m out. I tell my friends I’m just going for a glass of water, and they’re liable to spot me an hour later dancing on the roof with some fabulous Chileans and a bucket of fairy lights.
“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN?”
An intense voice shakes me from my daydreaming. It belongs to a man, and his face, equal parts serious and concerned, is unnervingly close to mine. He repeats his phrase; it’s less a question than a stated desperation.
“DO YOU WANT TO SPIN? YES?”
I laugh. His accent is something between Polish and French, and he doesn’t seem dangerous, just very intent on spinning, whatever he means by that.
The British are amused, “Go on, Holly!”
I jump to my feet, “Mister, it seems you need to spin. How can I help?”
“OK!” he says, clapping his hands together, serious as a general about to address his troops.
“Turn,” he instructs. I oblige, and turn my back to him.
He lines up to me, so we are back to back, and links our arms together. My inner 6-year-old surmises what’s in store.
“NOW, WE SPIN!”
With a sudden jerk, he leans forward, hoisting me into the air, and spins and spins and spins beneath me. I am sure my legs flailing about looks less than elegant, but the whole thing is too delightfully random to spare another thought on that. I can’t see anything but a wild blur, hear anything but the Brits cheering us on, feel anything but the rush of air and the heat of the strong, strange man beneath me.
Then, as suddenly as the spinning began, it stops, and I am back on my feet.
The concern is gone from the dude’s face, replaced by a relieved smile.
“PERFECT.”
And with that, he scurries off into one of the club rooms. Well, then.
I take a bow before the giddy Brits, then head off to the bar. Alcohol, weed, and impersonating a dreidel all took a toll on my poor stomach, and Momma needs a glass of water. The bar is packed, so I squeeze in where I can, already mentally preparing for the annoyed face of the German bartender when I ask for tap water.
An elbow pokes into mine.
“Na, du?”
The Frisian! Sans the glitter twins I saw him with earlier. Perfect.
