Le chateau de vent

It was still dark when she drove past the apartment blocks up to the police station. She had barely slept. A really bad cold. And being out at the murder site for hours yesterday had only worsened the coughing. She should quit smoking. But it wasn’t really the cold that had kept her awake. It was the girl. They hadn’t found one match with any missing person’s case in the database. It bothered her that she must be illegal or foreign. She’d bought a paper while picking up her lunch. Already they were hinting at a possible serial killer. She should go to the morgue today and have a good look at the corpse. And write a report, then go to the 2 o’clock meeting, get her motorbike fixed. She was driving past the bitch's restaurant and couldn’t resist looking. The curtains were down. Of course. The bitch had called yesterday, -after midnight of course- asking if she could come over for the night. She had refused. It made her so angry, she sat grinding her teeth in front of the wheel.

That night I dreamed about us. It was our first date in a big café with loud music and people talking all around us. "Let’s play a game," I say. "Alright, what?" "A conversation in which every word is essential. Nothing obsolete. Direct expression of feelings and thoughts. No hesitation. Are you ready for that?" She takes a cigarette from the pack on the table and lights it clumsily, bending her head toward the lighter. Shy. "Ok."she says.” You start." Concentrate. Break the ice. It’s not as easy as I thought. It flashes through my head. I want to spit out the passion, the complexity and the feelings I have for her in one clear moment, that will be remembered by both of us with the same intensity. It seems the most important thing to do: to create a memory that embodies everything we can be. We are both wounded animals, bruised by others. We bargain hard, knowing that every deception brings along more of that inevitable wisdom of li