Single also willig

I'm single, so I will.

It was a cold evening in December when we first met. It was so unremarkable and yet fundamentally scandalous. It was the way it always is and it is always burdensome. It was a cold evening in December and it was your birthday. 

I was new to the city and had just moved in. I knew my flatmates only vaguely. The three of us lived on the second floor of the old house. Your room was directly above mine, in the shared flat on the third floor. A narrow wooden staircase led up to you and beyond that, all the way to the entrance of the attic. In front of our flat door, empty cardboard boxes, old jam jars and plenty of worn-out shoes that had accumulated over the years were stacked up. I heard you stumble over the shoes that no longer belonged to anyone. Heard how you wanted to complain and then stopped yourself. How you pushed them aside with a light kick and climbed the stairs. I knew you only vaguely from the stairwell too, and even though I had only moved in a few weeks ago, several invitations to the flat upstairs had already followed. I had politely declined them.

Even my flatmates urged me to accompany them to your games night, but I continued to decline here as well. That I found board games rather unamusing, they understood immediately. That I was too ill to meet other people, they did not understand. You didn't understand that either and made me feel as though I was using illness as an excuse. 

Eventually it came, that cold evening in December. By chance we met again in the stairwell and began a conversation. Small talk turned into book recommendations and with that, the fever that wanted to drive me to bed early that evening was quickly forgotten. You invited me to come up for just a moment. I agreed. Your room was warm and uninviting. Just a bed, a shelf and the radiator, next to which I sat. I wore my winter jacket and left it buttoned. All I wanted was the book and to be a nice neighbour. All my body wanted was rest and sleep. I didn't give it that, and instead drank chai with you. I didn't open my jacket a crack, because I didn't want to stay long and my body needed the warmth. You wondered, so I explained it to you again. I was ill, I said. I wasn't antisocial or anxious, I just hadn't come by because I'd been ill for weeks. Your eyes narrowed, you studied me and came to the conclusion that I didn't look ill at all. You pushed your chair a bit closer to me, so that the chair legs already touched the bed edge, and began to smirk. You said I was surely not very ill anymore, because I hadn't coughed in quite some time. 

I explained to you that I didn't have a cough. That I'd been through all sorts of ailments for weeks, but coughing wasn't one of them. You fell silent and changed the subject, because there was much to discuss that interested you far more than my wellbeing. And so it happened, as it always does: A man asks who she is, so he can explain to her who he is. After you knew why I had moved here, I listened for hours to who you are, who you were, who you want to be, who you don't want to be and who they were. All the women who broke your heart. And what kind of woman should be the one to make you happy in the future. You spoke and I listened. That I was suppressing fever and pain whilst doing so, you didn't notice. Didn't want to notice. Instead, you explained to me three more times with a smirk that I was well again, thanks to the chai and you, because I hadn't coughed in ages. When you had told me almost everything you wanted me to know about you, you pushed your chair even closer. Almost casually, you placed your feet on my feet and explained to me that most people in the house were in relationships. Only you weren't. I pushed my body even closer to the radiator and felt as though I was burning up in my jacket, but I didn't want to open it even a centimetre, because all I wanted was to be a good neighbour. And a good neighbour can hardly leave when she's the only guest at the birthday party. 

Somehow you had managed to push your legs between my legs whilst still sitting on your chair and studying me. It turned out that we had been at the same event some time ago and quite casually you asked me whether my boyfriend had accompanied me there. I explained to you that I had been there with a girlfriend, but that didn't satisfy you and so you kept digging. Whether your boyfriend had any interest in theatre in general, you wanted to know. I breathed deeply and reached for the chai. And then you asked it, the question that had been burning on your mind the whole time. Yes, I said, I'm single, and I saw the joy in your face. I clung to the cup and studied your room again. Just the bed I was sitting on. A rickety shelf, a large radiator that offered me some support. An empty shared flat, your birthday. You, on the chair far too close to me, and me, who just wanted to get to know you as a neighbour. Who suddenly no longer knew what this would mean for living in this house going forward. Me, who found myself reduced once again to just my sex and my appearance. Me, about whom you knew nothing except that I seemed available. That I could be the kind of woman who should make you happy. For tonight? For the future? 

Then the headache set in. It was exactly midnight. I congratulated you and disappeared. Your words echoed in the stairwell. Something about coughing, something about a book. I struck my pillow with my right fist and was annoyed. Also with myself.

And as you can see, nothing really happened. It was as unremarkable as it always is and yet the core is scandalous. Because it was the way it always is and it is always burdensome.

Anonymous