a pretty long time. But I want to make it clear that we didn’t spend our entire last conversation
talking about me. We were interrupted by a nurse. A female voice said something in the background.
“Okay,” Samuel replied. “She’s done now. I have to go.”
We hung up. Our last conversation was over. It had lasted forty-five minutes. It was a few minutes before noon. I thought about how quickly the time had passed. Far too quickly. I’m sorry,
it’s starting again, I don’t know what to do about this, how many tears can a body hold, anyway? I don’t even feel all that sad right now, you know, this is just a physical
reaction [reaching for the roll of toilet paper].
*
We had been friends for a few months when Samuel said that Panther was moving to Berlin.
“When?” I asked, and I felt happy.
“In a few weeks. She’s just going to take off. Leave me here.”
We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I didn’t quite understand why he looked so sad. He drained his glass, signaled for a refill, and asked if I wanted to go somewhere else.
“There’s an end-of-term party at her art school tonight. I was planning to go. Want to come?”
I wasn’t sure, I liked it better at Spicy House.
“Come on. It’ll be fun. Think of the Experience Bank!”
“Experience Bank?”
“No matter how boring it is, we’ll still remember it. And that makes it all worth it, don’t you think?”
One hour later we were standing in front of an old building that looked like a boat factory. Bouncers were checking names against the list, Samuel had RSVPed for him plus one.
But the bouncers were no typical bouncers. They greeted everyone with a smile and instead of black flak jackets and headsets they were wearing terrycloth playsuits—I mean like the kind that
babies wear, but adult-sized, and one of them had a giant lollipop in his front pocket.
“What the fuck was that?” I whispered to Samuel as we were on our way in.
“Oh, I’m sure it was part of the art.”
But he wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t either, because at that party, absolutely anything could be art. We went from room to room and Samuel nodded at guys that looked like girls and girls
that looked like little boys. Everyone’s clothes were either really colorful or entirely black. Some of them gave me sideways glances, they noticed that I didn’t fit in, my skin
wasn’t pale enough, my muscles were too big, my leather jacket too black, and I smelled like cologne instead of sweat and rolling tobacco.
*
Panther ponders the question for a long time before she answers. Do I regret anything? Of course I regret some things. Everyone does. Anyone who says they don’t is lying.
Everyone walks around with feelings of loss and sadness and shame. It’s perfectly normal. And I get that his family is trying to convince themselves that it was an accident. After all, they
were the ones who were on him like bloodhounds at the end, with a thousand calls about insurance clauses and renovation money and loan qualifications and inheritance distributions. In the end he
couldn’t take it anymore. He made up his mind. He was ready. He made the decision. We’re the ones who have to live with it.
*
Panther’s room was full of people and the art was hanging on the walls, it was mirrors painted over with different texts and headlines. Panther herself was wearing an
American flag like a toga, with a knot over one shoulder, she hugged me and Samuel, she said that she had been waiting all night for us and then she disappeared to say hi to some other people.
“What do you think?” Samuel asked as we stood in front of a piece of art, each with a plastic glass of red box wine in hand.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Because I didn’t know. We went from room to room, looking at art that was sometimes art and sometimes turned out to be an ashtray that someone had left behind from an after-party. The
girls looked rich, or they must have been rich, because only
talking about me. We were interrupted by a nurse. A female voice said something in the background.
“Okay,” Samuel replied. “She’s done now. I have to go.”
We hung up. Our last conversation was over. It had lasted forty-five minutes. It was a few minutes before noon. I thought about how quickly the time had passed. Far too quickly. I’m sorry,
it’s starting again, I don’t know what to do about this, how many tears can a body hold, anyway? I don’t even feel all that sad right now, you know, this is just a physical
reaction [reaching for the roll of toilet paper].
*
We had been friends for a few months when Samuel said that Panther was moving to Berlin.
“When?” I asked, and I felt happy.
“In a few weeks. She’s just going to take off. Leave me here.”
We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I didn’t quite understand why he looked so sad. He drained his glass, signaled for a refill, and asked if I wanted to go somewhere else.
“There’s an end-of-term party at her art school tonight. I was planning to go. Want to come?”
I wasn’t sure, I liked it better at Spicy House.
“Come on. It’ll be fun. Think of the Experience Bank!”
“Experience Bank?”
“No matter how boring it is, we’ll still remember it. And that makes it all worth it, don’t you think?”
One hour later we were standing in front of an old building that looked like a boat factory. Bouncers were checking names against the list, Samuel had RSVPed for him plus one.
But the bouncers were no typical bouncers. They greeted everyone with a smile and instead of black flak jackets and headsets they were wearing terrycloth playsuits—I mean like the kind that
babies wear, but adult-sized, and one of them had a giant lollipop in his front pocket.
“What the fuck was that?” I whispered to Samuel as we were on our way in.
“Oh, I’m sure it was part of the art.”
But he wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t either, because at that party, absolutely anything could be art. We went from room to room and Samuel nodded at guys that looked like girls and girls
that looked like little boys. Everyone’s clothes were either really colorful or entirely black. Some of them gave me sideways glances, they noticed that I didn’t fit in, my skin
wasn’t pale enough, my muscles were too big, my leather jacket too black, and I smelled like cologne instead of sweat and rolling tobacco.
*
Panther ponders the question for a long time before she answers. Do I regret anything? Of course I regret some things. Everyone does. Anyone who says they don’t is lying.
Everyone walks around with feelings of loss and sadness and shame. It’s perfectly normal. And I get that his family is trying to convince themselves that it was an accident. After all, they
were the ones who were on him like bloodhounds at the end, with a thousand calls about insurance clauses and renovation money and loan qualifications and inheritance distributions. In the end he
couldn’t take it anymore. He made up his mind. He was ready. He made the decision. We’re the ones who have to live with it.
*
Panther’s room was full of people and the art was hanging on the walls, it was mirrors painted over with different texts and headlines. Panther herself was wearing an
American flag like a toga, with a knot over one shoulder, she hugged me and Samuel, she said that she had been waiting all night for us and then she disappeared to say hi to some other people.
“What do you think?” Samuel asked as we stood in front of a piece of art, each with a plastic glass of red box wine in hand.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Because I didn’t know. We went from room to room, looking at art that was sometimes art and sometimes turned out to be an ashtray that someone had left behind from an after-party. The
girls looked rich, or they must have been rich, because only
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