Love Is Pink! (15 page)

39

I
spent half of the night crying into my pillow. I finally fell asleep in the early morning.

When I woke up, it was almost afternoon. I had a headache. I was ill and my face looked like a spotted cauliflower, long forgotten in the refrigerator.

Michelle Krämer—#fuckedupwouldbebragging.

Baby needed to go out, so I quickly pulled on a pair of jogging pants over my pajamas, slipped into my ski jacket, and tugged a hat over my head to cover a good part of my face. Baby and I stumbled a couple of blocks to a public park.

On a park bench lay a copy of the
Bild
newspaper. Its front-page headline, “No White Christmas!” yammered at me.

How trivial! Who even needed those stupid white flakes?

Once back home, I fed Baby and ran myself a bath. I blessed the water lavishly with my best bubble bath, brewed myself some coffee, and retreated to the tub.

After a good hour, I at least felt clean, but my fingers and toes had lost circulation. On top of that, I was hungry. I warmed the next-to-last burger in the microwave and sat in front of the TV to watch
It’s a Wonderful Life
with Jimmy Stewart. I sobbed during the movie, especially during the final scene when the bells chimed so the angel could get his wings. I kept crying after it was over. Baby joined me for a bit, yowling in solidarity.

In an effort to cheer myself up, I decided to listen to the Christmas CD I’d found at Aldi. I spent the next hour with the remote control in my hand, pushing “Repeat” every time Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” came to an end. And I sobbed some more.

Outside, darkness was slowly falling. Christmas lights started twinkling in many of the apartments I could see out my window. Fewer and fewer people were on the street, as families hurried home to sit around their Christmas trees. I, however, had neither a family nor a tree.

It was high time.

Even though I really didn’t feel like it, I pulled myself together and dressed myself up. I wrapped a fresh Dior scarf around Baby and took him downstairs, where a taxi was waiting for us.

We circled around the lonely and deserted streets until the permanent lighting at Unter den Linden led us to the Brandenburg Gate. I got out there, gave the driver a generous tip, and stood alone with Baby at the Pariser Platz right in front of the gate. The
Quadriga
, a horse and chariot statue, didn’t interest me at the moment; instead, I wanted to see the enormous, beautiful Christmas tree.

I stood there beholding it for a long time, lost in thought.

“Now that’s a tree,” I said to Baby. “Have you ever seen one like that before?”

He answered by wagging his tail.

A cold wind had started to blow. Isolated, icy raindrops fell on my face.

“What do you think, Baby? Do you want to go to Starbucks, and I’ll have a coffee and you can get a muffin?”

Moments later, we were the only guests in the small establishment. I ordered myself a Caramel Macchiato with a dash of cinnamon—as I did every year—and Baby got a large blueberry muffin, which the clerk gave us for free. He probably felt sorry for me.

I sat down at the counter directly behind the paned glass and looked out to the majestic tree and the ethereal light that enveloped it.

The clerk decided to play Christmas music. Mariah Carey sang “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and she sounded very convincing. Until now, I’d never noticed just how deep some of these silly pop songs were.

My coffee was sweet and hot. I held the paper cup in my hand and wondered whether Madame Segebade’s daughter would visit her, or whether the old woman was just as alone as I was, sitting in her glorious castle, staring at her Christmas tree, full of despair.

A deafening shot broke the silence. No, it was a bang.

I looked out to where some taxis idled and noticed an ancient red-pink junker parking. The driver’s door opened and David got out. He talked briefly with the taxi drivers and headed straight into the coffee shop.

Since I was the only guest, he saw me immediately. He walked over to my table and stood in front of it.

I returned my thoughts and my gaze to the Christmas tree, barely paying attention to David. This was difficult, since Baby greeted him with wild affection.

“Is the seat next to you free?” David asked after a while.

“I think so,” I said. “The crowd is pretty under control at the moment.”

He sat down, cleared his throat, and said, “My name is David Rottmann. I’m an architect. I specialize in restoring historical landmarks, and I own a successful company.”

I looked at David and smiled at him mildly. “My name is Michaela Krämer. I’m a real estate agent.”

“Nice to meet you, Michaela.” He held out his hand.

I took it and had to force myself to let go of it.

“Apart from that,” he said, “I’m a single dad whose interested in a long-term relationship.”

I swirled the plastic stirrer in my coffee. “And what does
long-term
mean to you?”

He exhaled loudly. “I don’t know. Something like fifty or sixty years.”

I looked at my chic new Aldi watch. “Sixty years? I can live with that. I have to let you know, though, that I’m not uncommitted.”

“Hmm?”

“I have a dog. He’s huge and black.”

“That works out great. I have a daughter who loves dogs. And I have a house with a big garden. I’d love to show it to you sometime. No strings attached, of course.”

“Oh?” I said. “I would especially like to visit if I knew that your house had a Christmas tree.”

“A Christmas tree?”

I nodded.

“As luck would have it, my daughter and I happen to have trimmed our tree just this afternoon.”

My coffee cup was empty. I stood up and threw it away. “Well, what are we waiting for?” I asked.

It only occurred to me now that the counter guy had been listening to us the entire time. His mouth was slightly agape.

I waved good-bye to him as David took hold of Baby’s leash.

Together we walked over to the car. It had gotten even colder outside. The raindrops had turned into miniature crystals, whirling in the air like powdered sugar. Fine white dust began to settle on our clothes.

I stopped in front of the Citroën. “How did you even find me?” I asked.

David smiled. “That wasn’t difficult. You weren’t home, and at Madame Segebade’s you complimented her beautiful tree and said that you go to the Brandenburg Gate every year. S
o . . .
”

“You remembered that?”

“Details are important. They make you a good architect.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the car key, and held it out to me. “Would you like to drive?”

I wanted to take the keys, but almost by accident, I touched David while doing so. I don’t know what happened next. I just remember that we kissed, right in front of the Christmas tree at the Brandenburg Gate, as increasingly larger snowflakes danced around us.

A bright and clear voice called out to us. “Will you two stop that and finally get in? I’m cold. And I want to go home. Otherwise I’ll miss my presents!”

A bit embarrassed, I stepped back from David. We lifted Baby into the backseat next to Emma. She greeted him effusively.

I sat behind the steering wheel. Before turning the ignition key, I shot David a questioning look. “Do you think Pinky will start for us?

“I got the hint the first time. I’ll get the Citroën repainted.”

“Don’t you dare,” I said sternly. “Pink is my new favorite color!”

Emma leaned forward to whisper to me. “See, I told you that love is pink!”

The car started. As it roared, I said, “There’s something else I’d like to know.”

“What is it?” David asked.

“How far do we need to drive this time?”

ABOUT
THE
A
UTHOR

Roxann Hill was born in Brno, Czech Republic. As a young girl during the Prague Spring, she fled with her parents to Germany, where she grew up and still lives today with her husband, two children, and two big dogs.

While continuing to pursue her executive-level career, Roxann Hill writes novels that she would like to read herself: romance, fantasy, and mystery/thriller are her favorite genres. The centerpiece of each of her novels is always the love story.

Visit Roxann Hill at her blog:
www.roxannhill.blogspot.de
. You can also follow her on Facebook (
facebook.com/roxann.hill.autorin
) and Twitter
@Roxann_Hill
, and Google+
(Roxann Hill)
. Your input is always welcome!

ABOUT
THE
T
RANSLATOR

Photo © 2013 Ramiro Salazar

A New York City native, Elena Mancini grew up speaking Italian and English. She holds a PhD in Germanic Languages and Literatures from Rutgers University, and is passionate about the intimate literary dimension that she experiences translating fiction. She has published numerous literary translations and works of social commentary online and in print. In addition to translating, Elena teaches German literature and film at Queens College in NYC, and works in the field of international higher education administration.