she caught his eye straight away, there was no doubt, he really liked the way how she looked, the way how she moved and in general her colours, the whole aura around her was just lovely. it all made perfectly sense and although first signs of ageing on her face got more unforgiving the closer she came to where he casually slouched he could still see the unbroken girl spirit underneath, the power, the determination to make it as a woman in this world, something most other females around forty had lost a long time ago. as she was further approaching with all those silly pigeons gathering around his bench purring and flapping, there was complete silence for it must’ve been only a fraction of a second when he dived off far far away, to a secret, recluse sanctuary with dior clad angels all over the place if you asked him. and then he lashed out to shy the birds away just in time for her to be close enough to look up at him, perplexed, shocked, perhaps even frightened but he just smiled and she chilled, finally noticing his handsome face. he said, “they’re just stupid, these pigeons”. she smiled back and he waved for her to come over which she did. she sat down next to him. “hi, my name is frank”, he said and that’s how they met.

claire tried the potatoes which by now were almost there. she then bent down to inspect the meat loaf sizzling away in the oven. it was looking good. she was actually quite nervous. the last time she’s had a date, that must’ve been – what, almost ten years ago? the thought frightened the shit out of her. she took a gulp of wine and emptied the glass in one go. she had to destract her thoughts. one hand leaned on the rim of the kitchen working table while the finger of the other one nervously tapped on the stem of her glass. she saw stars in the middle of the blackness as she glanced towards the kitchen window. new moon? she poured herself another glass and downed it again in one go. slowly she began to feel reasonably tipsy. well done. it was time to face her future destiny. she grabbed the plate with starters and scurried outside where frank was slouching confortably in her sofa, all alone by himself. amazing how he managed to be that relaxed all the time, good old boy. it was certainly one of the reasons why she found him so extraordinarily attractive. always chilled about everything. but the best thing was that he was just simply very good looking, like from a fairy tale, only a bit older. whenever she tried to look at him she straight away had to look away again. his appearance alone turned her on so much already. she waved a slice of prosciutto above his mouth and he snapped the prey, grunted satisfiedly. she had to laugh, this guy was just amazing. she popped down an olive after and then made her way back into the kitchen where she finally burst out into uncotrolled giggle which she initially tried to suppress with her hand but after it failed simply stopped by gnawing on her fingers until she could eventually pour herself another glass of wine.

what a crazy girl claire was, he thought while his eyes roamed across her video and dvd collection. most of it was rubbish. ‘friends’, ’sex and the city’, the whole fucking collected series. she wasn’t quite the brightest person, no no, certainly not, but the more he looked at her, the more often he thought about her, the more he realised that he actually really cared about her and that the pure thought of her fancying him was massively flattering for him. he also really liked her. behind a petite and sensual beauty with cheekbones from hell there was a deeply ingrained sadness hidden behind which around her eyes and the corners of her mouth had subtly settled down in her face. he would’ve never thought it was possible but this sadness, this self deprecation, touched him deeply. his whole body was shaking while he was suddenly shattered to pieces by a wave of pitch black far fetching memories. his hand clawed into the sofa’s armrest while the other one touched his forehead. crouched over he fell deep. his mother touched him, it was a strange, uncomfortable feeling. he smelled her breath as she bent down on him, a nauseating mixture between self hatred and negligence. she beat him, her hand smashed across his face and threw it to the side. he didn’t defend himself. he was naked, crawling aimlessly on his hands and knees across the humiliatingly freezing tiled floor. something was stuck up his anus, his knees stung like needles end then came the beatings, the brutal thrashings with the stick and he screamed and whimpered but nobody could hear him. something threw him hard on the floor. the bleakness of the tiles shot up his spine like an ice pick. absolutely mortified he noticed a huge erection on himself. she grabbed the organ and rubbed it hard, like a machine. he screamed again, moaned, his hands covered his eyes, he was paralysed. waves of shudder throbbed through his body in irregular intervals. then he felt something damp on his penis, she sucked on it, hot and wet and then he came and something in his head exploded. it was a nuclear bomb. he dropped back deep inside claire’s sofa, breathing out heavily like an inflatable rubber doll someone had pulled the plug on. the whole flat smelled of the meat loaf by now. he heard something crack and looked around, there was nothing. it cracked again and this time he noticed that it was something inside his head. a few switches were obviously being pulled here and he felt like a complete stranger all of a sudden, in this room, in this flat. who was this woman in the kitchen? in any case he wasn’t the man anymore he had been until only a few minutes ago. kkkch – another set of black bleeding wounds cracked open volcanically and their scabby scars burst apart like a stirred up swarm of insects. he was being pulled down deep into the gaping abyss.

the meat was ready. she had meanwhile also skinned and mashed the potatoes and now stirred it all through with a bit of milk, salt and olive oil to create a delicious, smooth puree. fairly inebriated from the wine she couldn’t find her own mouth for a while in order to taste it. when she heard frank coming into the kitchen from behind, she only briefly flinched, sobering up for a moment. but without turning round she effortlessly slid back into her sullen drunkenness. she decided to pretend to not having heard him coming in. maybe he was ready in the end and finally showed some emotions. her whole body tickled at the thought.

he saw her standing at the oven, drunkenly swaying from side to side and absentmindedly stirring the pot with the puree. she had certainly heard him coming in. adrenaline shot through his body. silently he snatched a knife from one of the kitchen working tables. in case she’d nonetheless turn round he carefully hid it behind his back and then crept up on her quietly.

this was it then. she could feel quite clearly how she got wet down there. never in her life had she more wished to sleep with a guy than in this very moment. his breath was now distinctly noticeable on the back of her neck and it made her shiver. his smell flooded her nose. it was a sweet mixture of cedar wood and the red wine they’d both been drinking for the whole evening. she felt how he advanced his head towards her neck, one hand clutching her shoulder and again she flinched, stiff and in trembling anticipation. it was finally happening. all those abuses, reproaches and lies. all those bad memories, painful experiences, destructive relationships. they were all extinguished in one go, she was free now, free like the wind as she finally felt his mouth on her neck. a kiss, cold and dry but with devotion and her knees involuntarily bent …

… as the knife finally slit her throat open. bright red blood broke out of the wound like a long hidden well, instantaneously and in strangely erratic intervals, and spurted into the mash which claire still kept stirring, for a brief, on the brink of madness bordering moment. the bold red of the blood blended in tastefully with the fine yellow consistency of their dinner side dish. finally she collapsed, overwhelmed by the shock, and he carefully caught her in his arms, making sure that no blood was spitting on him. he slithered down to the floor with her in an outrageously surreal-grotesque movement which remotely bore references to a classical ballet death scene. her wide open eyes stared up into his. it was the first time they met. inside he saw disbelief, pain and fear. but also something like peace. and as the croaking sounds of her still blood squirting throat slowly faded, the light in those eyes vanished as well.

the mobile phone was in her handbag and it was a piece of cake to erase any signs of his existence out of its directory, also all other fingerprints in the flat. he’d never been here. he’d never entered the world of this woman. who was she anyway? back in the kitchen he could convince himself that the woman with the sliced open throat was finally dead. the blood had eventually ceased to pump out of her and left an iridescent puddle on the floor in which he could see himself mirrored. he wiped the last fingerprints off the knife. somehow he also managed to turn off the oven before he finally made it back outside to the entrance. a quick glimpse through the spy glass. there was no one outside. he’d never been here. with the sleeves of his jumper pulled over his hands he engaged the door knob. he closed the door behind him and blindly touched his way down the dark staircase, towards the exit. he’d never been here. nothing had ever happened. as he finally hit the street he was being welcomed by a surprisingly chilly late summer afternoon. he had to pop up his collar and embrace himself crookedly in order for him to feel warm enough to step into the never ending stream of people who were all looking for something. money, sometimes. but most of the time it was love.

reinhard schleining
london, june/july 2006

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