Collecting small anecdotes of transitory moments.
I sit down on one of these uncomfortable metal benches in indecisive greys and blues. Rathaus-Neukölln. 4.30h. Saturday morning.
Can’t figure out if I’m still drunk or already hungover.
The party was too long, the re-fills too many, and–of course–this cute Brazilian had to open a ‘Berliner Luft’.
I look up, left and right; wondering which interior-designer figured eggshells-vomit was a fitting color choice for public transport…
But then again–The U7-line dates back to the 1930s, times when brown was en vogue.
Aggressive, yellow pixel letters promise a 14-minute wait–the apocalypse, in Berlin measures.
A ragged guy next to me starts mumbling hypnotic sounds; his fixed gaze on an Aldi-bag like he’s a snake-charmer,
across from me, a tipsy couple shoves their tongues down their throats in a disturbingly repetitive rhythm,
while, somewhere on the platform, a tinny medley of “Oh Happy Day” and “Oh When the Saints” blasts out of an old saxophone in full disharmony.
The headache begins to throb, the fatigue attacks, my eyes get heavy.
Should’ve taken a cab.
I wake up by the smashing noise of the arriving train. In horror, I look around, my zipped-up backpack still lies next to me, my phone rests securely in my right hand.
The tongues come loose, the glassy gaze slowly raises, “Oh when the saints” fades away, mystically echoing from the tiled walls as the U7 rattles into the station.
4.44h.
As I get up,
a small piece of paper, inscribed with thick, hastily written sharpy-letters, falls to the ground.
I pick it up.
“You look cute when you sleep. Get home safe :* :)”
