“Gross. Don’t mess with my head.”
“What do you hate most about him, Jude?” Gerda said, blowing out a long stream of cigarette smoke.
“The way he looks at Christine,” Jude said, laughing. “Truly, Christine, didn’t you see? He sat up there and kept sneaking
glances at you all night. I think you’ve won his heart.”
“Don’t,” Christine protested. “I mean it, Jude, he gives me the creeps.”
“How about you, Fabiyan?” Gerda said, speaking slowly. “Do you hate Mandy?”
“He come to me on the Wednesday,” Fabiyan said. “I think he will ask me about my new sculpture. No. He ask me to make him
a point.”
“A point?” Pete asked.
Fabiyan mimed plugging an electrical cord into a wall. “Yes, for electricity.”
“He asked you to install an outlet?” Christine asked. “Are you kidding?”
Fabiyan shook his head.
“That’s so disrespectful. You’re an artist,” Gerda said, enthusiastically stubbing her cigarette on the side of the table.
Fabiyan looked puzzled so Christine translated into German for him.
“Did you do it?” Jude asked.
Fabiyan nodded. “I feel I must say yes to him.”
“I hate him because he listens to the worst music in the universe,” Pete said. “New Age Pan flute music, and classical symphonies
with a pop backbeat. Sometimes he puts it on in the gallery when I’m trying to work in the studio and it’s counter-inspirational.”
“I’m with you on that one,” Jude said.
“And there’s something weird about the way he moves,” Pete added. “He’s this big, lumbering fat guy, and yet he has this uncanny
speed and accuracy. I’ve seen him catch a fly in mid-flight.”
“No way!” Jude exclaimed.
“Yeah. He let it out a window. For a horrible moment I thought he was going to eat it.”
They all laughed, then Gerda tapped out a cascade of ash and said, “I wish I had a good reason to hate him, but I think I
just hate him because he’s hateable.”
“Unbelievably hateable,” Christine agreed.
“Irrationally hateable,” Gerda continued, “because he’s generous, he loves art, he’s devoted his life to the development of
artists from all over the world, and he never interferes creatively with any of us.”
“There’s just something about him,” Pete said.
Christine drained her beer. “I’m glad to hear someone else say that. It’s true, there’s just something about him.”
“Poor guy,” Jude said. “Imagine going through life being irrationally hateable.”
“There are worse fates,” Gerda said, indicating Christine’s empty bottle. “More beer?”
“More beer,” Christine said, gazing off down the long dark street. The giant TV tower at Alexanderplatz blinked against the
night sky in the distance. Jude was right, now she thought back on it. Mandy had been staring at her tonight. But that was
strange, because at first it had seemed as if he wanted to get away from her. He had said she reminded him of something and
then moved to the other end of the table.
“Where are you?” Jude said quietly in her ear.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a million miles away.”
“Just thinking about something,” she said with a smile, and decided not to think any more about Immanuel Zweigler.
Jude’s body was one of the undiscovered wonders of the world. His skin was hot and smooth, his lips and his hands were agile
and passionate and gentle. Late that night, the best way he knew how, he managed to take Christine’s mind off the pain.
“You’re a god,” Christine gasped as he slid back to his side of the bed.
He smiled at her in the dark. “The pleasure’s all mine, I promise.”
“Why do you love me?” she asked.
“Because you remind me so much of Christine Starlight, who I’ve always had a big crush on.”
She laughed. “Idiot.”
“Hey, you asked the stupid question.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“Yes, it is. Anyone who ever loves anyone truly loves them because of their
“What do you hate most about him, Jude?” Gerda said, blowing out a long stream of cigarette smoke.
“The way he looks at Christine,” Jude said, laughing. “Truly, Christine, didn’t you see? He sat up there and kept sneaking
glances at you all night. I think you’ve won his heart.”
“Don’t,” Christine protested. “I mean it, Jude, he gives me the creeps.”
“How about you, Fabiyan?” Gerda said, speaking slowly. “Do you hate Mandy?”
“He come to me on the Wednesday,” Fabiyan said. “I think he will ask me about my new sculpture. No. He ask me to make him
a point.”
“A point?” Pete asked.
Fabiyan mimed plugging an electrical cord into a wall. “Yes, for electricity.”
“He asked you to install an outlet?” Christine asked. “Are you kidding?”
Fabiyan shook his head.
“That’s so disrespectful. You’re an artist,” Gerda said, enthusiastically stubbing her cigarette on the side of the table.
Fabiyan looked puzzled so Christine translated into German for him.
“Did you do it?” Jude asked.
Fabiyan nodded. “I feel I must say yes to him.”
“I hate him because he listens to the worst music in the universe,” Pete said. “New Age Pan flute music, and classical symphonies
with a pop backbeat. Sometimes he puts it on in the gallery when I’m trying to work in the studio and it’s counter-inspirational.”
“I’m with you on that one,” Jude said.
“And there’s something weird about the way he moves,” Pete added. “He’s this big, lumbering fat guy, and yet he has this uncanny
speed and accuracy. I’ve seen him catch a fly in mid-flight.”
“No way!” Jude exclaimed.
“Yeah. He let it out a window. For a horrible moment I thought he was going to eat it.”
They all laughed, then Gerda tapped out a cascade of ash and said, “I wish I had a good reason to hate him, but I think I
just hate him because he’s hateable.”
“Unbelievably hateable,” Christine agreed.
“Irrationally hateable,” Gerda continued, “because he’s generous, he loves art, he’s devoted his life to the development of
artists from all over the world, and he never interferes creatively with any of us.”
“There’s just something about him,” Pete said.
Christine drained her beer. “I’m glad to hear someone else say that. It’s true, there’s just something about him.”
“Poor guy,” Jude said. “Imagine going through life being irrationally hateable.”
“There are worse fates,” Gerda said, indicating Christine’s empty bottle. “More beer?”
“More beer,” Christine said, gazing off down the long dark street. The giant TV tower at Alexanderplatz blinked against the
night sky in the distance. Jude was right, now she thought back on it. Mandy had been staring at her tonight. But that was
strange, because at first it had seemed as if he wanted to get away from her. He had said she reminded him of something and
then moved to the other end of the table.
“Where are you?” Jude said quietly in her ear.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a million miles away.”
“Just thinking about something,” she said with a smile, and decided not to think any more about Immanuel Zweigler.
Jude’s body was one of the undiscovered wonders of the world. His skin was hot and smooth, his lips and his hands were agile
and passionate and gentle. Late that night, the best way he knew how, he managed to take Christine’s mind off the pain.
“You’re a god,” Christine gasped as he slid back to his side of the bed.
He smiled at her in the dark. “The pleasure’s all mine, I promise.”
“Why do you love me?” she asked.
“Because you remind me so much of Christine Starlight, who I’ve always had a big crush on.”
She laughed. “Idiot.”
“Hey, you asked the stupid question.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“Yes, it is. Anyone who ever loves anyone truly loves them because of their
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