She has a white t-shirt on and smells like soap. Her lipstick is red, and her hair is pitch black -just like her eyes. Her nose wiggles; her nose job wiggles too. Something has been stamped on her t-shirt in red. Something silly and cool, I bet. There’s a twinkle in her eyes when she sees me. I’ve travelled halfway -well, a quarter of the way- around the world to be here. She’s happy she made me do this.
The sheets in the flat are white and soft. There’s a garden. There are big windows. And the street is paved in small concrete squares. There’s a picture of a funny dog stamped into one of the squares, inside a big red circle. There’s no red line crossing the picture of the dog, as if to say: dogs are NOT not allowed, and are, in fact, welcome. There’s also coffee shops with weed and “smart” shops with mushrooms. And that is our Amsterdam for you.
I’m missing substances in my blood -and I purposely didn’t pack any either. I make do with what’s available. We walk, sit in a coffee shop, have a smoke, have a cappuccino, and we walk again. People everywhere. I get the chills sometimes. I put on my jacket, sweat, take it off, repeat. I’m awake though, my body is -more than in a while. She can tell. She likes it. Back at the Airbnb, on the sofa, on the worn out carpet, the soft sheets…
Then we watch a movie and I cry -being on quite a bit of mushrooms and all. I don’t think she liked THAT. Then she insists that we can open up the hard-shot windows and smoke inside, which we obviously weren’t supposed to do, which we do anyway. We “were OK guests” read our landlady’s comment on my Airbnb page. Quite generous of her I’d say.
خیلی با این ارتباط برقرار نکردم. شاید چون یه چیزهاییش رو قشنگ نفهمیدم.