"Every dad cheats." according to her boyfriend. She looked at him.
"What do you mean?" She asked, her voice sounded slightly aggressive.
She was sixteen, they had been together for half a year now and she had only broken up with him twice to see how much he really wanted her. Her boyfriend continued.
"As I said, all dads are unfaithful, even yours." It felt like she had been stabbed in her stomach.
"Why do you say this?" Was the only thing she could ask.
'Because it is true. Every dad has a mistress. "

She thought of the childhood of her boyfriend, who had grown up without a dad. His mother had kicked the man out the door after he once again had gotten home drunk and with his socks turned inside out. In her eyes synonymous with cheating.
"I wont take it anymore," she apparently hissed and in that moment decided, that Ruby`s boyfriend would grow up just fine with just herself and all her gay friends she had dancing around her. This was the late 1980s were the AIDS galore raged across the planet. She lost much of her dancing friends. And Ruby`s boyfriend by the same token his surrogate fathers.

"But Justin, the man who taught me how to shave is fortunately still alive. He was in the hospital recently and the doctor said that he now has more antibodies in his blood than you and I together,thanks his cocktail of AIDS medicines! You should really meet him again anyway." Her boyfriend said it in such a nice way she did not know how to respond.
"Oh, that's so cool!" She heard herself say, while she panicked to think of a way how she could get out of any goodbye kisses from Justin in the future.
 Sad, but true.

Around the age of ten Ruby`s boyfriend had asked his mother to be allowed to meet his father for the first time. It was a match made in heaven. Both her boyfriend and his father were avid comic book collectors and turned out to have the same humour. It was very cozy for a few weeks.
"My mom has even slept with him again during," he told Ruby proudly. "But after a few weeks he said he would come pick me up from school and no matter who came, none of them my dad."
She compassionately looked at him. "He never showed up and he had even borrowed two of my favourite comic books! Looking back that really was the worst, that I've never got those back. "
I tried a little smile and patted his back.

It is a Sunday. `Sombre dimanche`. That was a song from Nicos youth. he can only remember one line from it: 'Je mourai un dimanche où trop j`aurai souffert.` That sentence pleases him greatly. A part of the melody comes back to him.

He hums as he goes outside for a morning walk, armed with his umbrella because it is pouring from the sky. Just the weather he likes. In the distance, he sees an acquaintance coming his way. Nico fails to avoid him. `Crazy weather, right`, the acquaintance says from under his umbrella. 'It`s great isn't it`, Nico says.
`You call this great?`, the acquaintance says and quickly walks on.
`Yes, I call this great`, Nico yells after him angrily.

It stops raining. He still keeps his umbrella up to provoke a new downpour, but  sadly to no avail. The sun even begins to shine a little. Fortunately  just a faint, thin sunshine. Nevertheless, the weather gods are not cooperating.

`I will die on a Sunday, on which i will have suffered too much` Nico continues to hum in order to sing some courage to himself. Not too much courage, of course, because that would not suit him.
Once he gets back home home, he undresses himself and goes into his bathroom. He does not turn the water on. Longing for rain he stands naked in his shower

We were in her room. I looked at the piano and the curtains which did not have the same colour. She started undressing herself. I had never seen that before. I thought undressing the other was part of the game. When discovering, a first touch. How your hands gently touch the fabric, and through the fabric feel her skin. How your hands feel where the hips and her shoulders are, where the strap of her bra is that then can be slipped down. The discomfort of a body that slowly gets exposed more and more. And that there is a bed, or anything else where you're naked together and touching each other. First only the stomachs, but then also the arms and legs.

She stood there in her panties and bra. A white stomach, muscled like a surfer. I reluctantly pulled my sweater over my head and the dress that was underneath. I searched for her eyes as I did. Undressing felt like stripping naked in the change rooms of a swimming pool. The forced state between a winter coat and swimsuit. I undressed myself further. I rolled the tights down my legs, I tried to make it sensual. Touching my own skin with my thumb and palms as i slid it down my legs. My legs were whiter than I remembered. As I stood in my shirt in front of her, she reached into a pile of clothes next to the door. From the mountain, she pulled out a faded red T-shirt, still stiff from drying. she hoisted herself into the T-shirt. Her smooth stomach disappeared under the red fabric. I could just see her navel. I now only wore a bra and a thong. On the chair our clothes lay intertwined.
My mind went back to when we were still outside, when I was still wearing clothes. How the tram stopped for the stop near her house and nobody got out because it was late and everyone had already gone home. I looked at her hands that were soft and my breasts. The skin puffed out from the side and the moles that run across it from dark to light. I felt naked, exposed as a platform. People do not look at the nudeness as if they're waiting for it, as if they expect something from it.
I stared at the pile of washed clothes. She stood with her back to me to put a CD in the radio. Her room had a good sound system. She moved her hands along the radio like she knew what she was doing, then turned back to me. We looked at the pile together. "What do you want?" I chose a light blue top with waves of the Mediterranean sea on it.
She gestured that she had to get something in another room. I stepped on the mattress that lay on the ground in the corner. I lay still and looked at all the things in the room. To the piano with the open lid , and the bookshelf, which had two juggling clubs on it and a mannequin of foam. The bed was cold, I rubbed it warm with my legs.

When the door opened, she came in with two glasses of water. She placed one glass beside me on the floor; the other she held in her hand as she stepped into the bed with me. I smelled her, she smelled like a woman. It was a pleasant smell. I looked at her, at her neck, which I  had just kissed outside in the dark. I saw the shape of her face. she reservedly drank her whole glass of water and put it next to my full one. I felt her legs crawling into the bed, how she looked at me with her dark eyes. Now it surely had to start. I had no idea how, with the flanel blanket up to my chin in a light blue top that smelled of clean laundry.

Her dad lay in bed during the middle of the day. He lay on his side, diagonally across the double mattress, blanket half covering him. The curtains were not closed properly. It smelled like a murdered prostitute was hidden under his bed.
"Fuck," he muttered. "I heard you alright."
She had rung twice and then opened the door herself. She still had a key.
With her coat on she was standing at the end of the bed. Her father turned onto his back so he could look at her.
"You look dreadful out," he said.
'You think so?'
"Yes, you've looked a lot better."

He sighed and slowly got out of bed. She expected that he would change clothes, but he did not. In his pyjamas, he went down the stairs in front of her. He made coffee and toppled down on the couch. She grabbed a chair, put her coat over the armrest.
"Haven't seen you in a while," he said.
"I was here only a month ago."
Her father coughed. She looked around.
"Are you going to say that I have to clean up that mess?"
"No." She looked at his nose hairs.
"Were you out of bed earlier this morning already?" She asked.
He rubbed his face. "Yes. For a bit. "

She wondered who besides her still thought of her father. It could not have been many. A pair of scissors lay open next to her feet. She picked it up, flipped it shut and placed it on the coffee table. He looked outside and then back at her.
"You look really bad," he said. She nodded.
He stood up and walked to the kitchen. Under the table she saw a newspaper. She pulled it towards her. It was over a week old. It had been scratched on with a blue pen. Her father came back with the coffee. She did not ask for milk and sugar, because she knew it was no use. He drank it black and expected the same from his guests. He sat back down on the couch, took a sip of coffee.

It was quiet for a while. She did not know where to begin.
"I should have a dog," he suddenly said.
She nodded. "That doesn't sounds like a bad idea. What kind of dog are you thinking about? "
'No idea.'
"A Boxer?
'Yes maybe. What do they look like again? "
She thought of a boxer and how she could best describe one. Her father had his eyes closed. He sighed.
"Jesus, I'm so tired."
She took a swig of her coffee. He opened his eyes again.
"You are probably leaving again?"
She did not respond right away. With her finger she went over the edge of the coffee mug. At two places, there was a bit chipped off. Her father kept looking at her.
"Yes, I think so," She said.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" He asked.
'No.'
"It is about time, isn't it. You need to put some effort in. "He yawned. She put the mug on the table and put on her coat.
"Are you going back to bed?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Well, until next time then."
He nodded, took a sip of his coffee. She opened the front door and stood very still for a moment. Her father looked outside.

Hugo and Carl  are sitting in the canteen, coincidentally it is lunchtime. The two men have grabbed their packed lunch sandwiches from the fridge that stands in the company kitchen. it's not a kitchen where you can cook, but there is a sink, a sink with a faucet and a coffee machine. There is also a fridge so, this is where the two men leave their sandwiches brought from home every morning to keep them nice and fresh. Then Hugo starts talking, which is usually the case when the two go for lunch.

An  acquaintance of Nico has been abandoned by his wife and pours his heart out to him. He also sheds many a tear. The woman, who was having long relationship with a good friend of the acquaintance, left a note that read: 'I am leaving you. There is some one else. I'm sorry.`

She lived on the second and third floor. Her bedroom was on the third.
The stairs to get there were the longest I had ever seen. Two floors straight up. I asked her if she was going to carry me upstairs. She laughed about that. I had never seen a house that was divided in this way, but according to her, this was quite normal in this city. Not long after I practically moved in with her.

When an order passes, Zara looks at the plates. He sees a piece of fish with a puree come by, and something similar to quiche, a Wiener Schnitzel and several bowls of fresh fruit.
Fresh fruit in November, Zara thinks.
She suggested this restaurant. He just wanted to have a drink, she immediately wanted to dine. When she wrote that, he also wanted to dine.
He had thought of something simple, a diner with burgers and fries, near a train station. Not the most obvious place for a man of his age. The diner is always full of students, who can eat the meal of the day for half its price. But Zara feels comfortable amongst the crowd and loud music. Many young people nod at him there, perhaps because it reminds them of their parents, perhaps because he is always there.
When he comes home from the diner, his jacket smells of cooking oil.
Once he brought a girl back home, a girl that came to sit at his table with a nasty looking plate of  lasagna. The girl had a nose piercing and the palest skin he had ever seen. Her date had not shown up, she said.
They talked all night about everything. Zara had a good time, though the girl also had something strange about her. The girl also thought it was nice, she was just cold the whole time. Therefore he had wrapped his jacket around her like a blanket when they went outside.
At night they had sex at his home, with the heater on. His jacket smelled like deep fryer and young girl the next day.

When Zara had told this story, his match said she did not like fries and  that piercings were unsanitary. A day later she emailed him again.
It was an forwarding-mail. A forwarding for a reservation for this restaurant. For two, at 7:30 pm.
He plays with his phone and drinks his beer. She didn't give a shy impression in her e-mails, he thinks. Not like someone who is too afraid to call.
Appearances, he thinks, pretension. Women. He had learned a lot about women.
When he beckons to have the wine uncorked, a different waiter than before comes towards him. This guy is older, grayer, he smells like the fabric seat covers in some cars.
"Where is that boy from earlier?" Zara asks.
"Gone."
"Gone?"
"Gone."
"Is he coming back?"
"Back?"
"Back here?"
'No.'
'Oh.'
"I am your waiter for the rest of the evening, sir."
"Not the boy?"
"Not the boy. Shall I already bring you a basket of bread, sir? "
"No," Zara replies, "thank you. I will wait a little longer. I'm waiting for someone. "
"The boy is not coming back, Mister. He is gone.'
"I'm waiting for somebody else. For a woman. "
"The woman who has booked?"
"Yes. That lady is my date. "
The waiter hesitates. "Sir, that woman will not come."
"She's a little late," Zara says loud.
"Sir, I assure you she will not come."
"You know nothing, sir. She will come. Now bring me a basket of bread anyway. And some olives. "
He takes a sip from his wine, drums his fingers on the table before staring at the entrance door.
The way he sits here right now, he is flawless.

Just having a stroll down the street, Nico doesn't like it at all. He needs a purpose, preferably something he does out of slight boredom. Like bringing the empty bottles the glass container, old newspapers to the . waste paper bin. Apparently they make new paper from his old newspapers again, so that the whole operation seems a bit futile: A endless vicious circle. But the worst thing to do is for no reason stroll down the road. And because it's so horrible, he does it with some regularity.

Sometimes he meets an acquaintance. 'What are you doing outside` Nico asks. `Just getting some fresh air, why` the acquaintance asks. `You must be crazy`, Nico replies. 'What are you dong outside then?`, asks the acquaintance. `Inhaling exhaust fumes`, Nico says.  `The Stench of dog shit,  odour of babies urine`. Good, he has made his point, leaving the acquaintance behind in confusion. Confusion is good, it makes Nico into the man he is. Being the person you are is perhaps less good again. But Nico realizes that it's true in his case, because he is a knight of the sad character.
That last phrase reminds him of Don Quichot, who fought a losing battle against the windmills. What was Don thinking? The futility of it, makes Nico somewhat content again, a feeling he immediately subdues again. A little crazy is okay, but it shouldn't get too crazy
Or can it?

The young waiter sets a new glass of beer in front of him.
"Shall I take the other or do you still need it?
"Its fine, you can take it." Zara mutters, at a tone of someone that could change his mind a second later.
"You still  don't want to order anything to eat yet?" The boy asks.
"No, but I just want to see the wine menu," Zara replies.
"Of course, sir. Certainly, sir. "
When the waiter leaves, Zara pushes his chair back,  nods at the handsome woman and for the second time tonight goes to the toilet.
While intently watching how the urine flows out his willy (his prostate has not abandoned  him despite his age), he glances at his watch.
She is now half an hour late exactly.
Half an hour is not too bad, half an hour later can - as they sit together in a bath or relax in Tuscany and look back on their first date - simply be forgotten. Perhaps she will say something - "I do remember that I spent half an hour in my car in the parking lot, because I was afraid" - and he probably will have forgotten about it.
Half an hour is nothing when it comes to love, Zara, thinks while he shakes his penis to get rid of  the last few drops.

On his table sits the wine menu, bound in leather. On top of it is a yellow sticker, the kind that people working in offices stick on each other's back, fitted with a funny text that much later, on the couch of a costly psychologist, will be explained as stigmatizing.
Madame will be some later. Being delayed. Humble excuses. sincerely
Zara looks at the note, turns it around, as if someone would ever write anything on the sticky side. The back is empty, yellow and sticky.
He sticks the note on a blank spot of the tablecloth and looks into the wine menu. His right hand automatically moves back in the direction of his glass of beer, which he thoughtlessly starts to slide back and forth while he studies the wines that are listed.
"Have you been able to make a choice, sir?"
'I'd like the Merlot,' Zara says. You can`t go wrong with a Merlot.
"Excellent. A glass of Merlot. "
"A bottle of Merlot."
'A bottle?'
"With two glasses."
"Yes, sir. Have you received the note? "
Zara gestures to post-it on the tablecloth.
"Very good, sir. Thank you sir. May I congratulate you on your choice, sir. "
Zara drinks his beer. He thinks of the ad, the emails, the text messages.
He slides his phone out from the inside pocket of his jacket and reads a few of her old messages. Specifically rereads one sentence in one those short messages again and again, as if he constantly wants to check whether it really says what he remembers.
He can`t find anything out of the ordinary among it.
The sentence is barely noticeable in an endless list of compliments from a woman he has never met, compliments for his photo, his digital profile and stylistically outstanding emails.
She is an English teacher, she is prone to stylistic excellence.
The bottle and glasses are put in front of him.
"Shall I ...?" The waiter asks.
"Soon."
"Excellent, sir."

Zara pulls a face to the mirror.
He cant find anything wrong with his appearance. Not that he would describe himself as wildly attractive, not like that, but how do they say that? He is alright. He can`t find any major deficiencies in his reflection. Well, maybe his eyes. Which are on the dull side. It is an imperfection he has long ago resigned to. A man can`t do anything about dull eyes.

Where do you want to go to first? "Sebastian asks Rose, while the nauseating mucky smell of new furniture fills his nostrils. Below them shrill screams echo from the ball pool. He massages his temples, while Rose  realizes how cute she thinks those kids are. For a moment she puts her hand on her flat stomach.