tiny brooks unite into a raging torrent. “Just keep following my tears, and the brook will take you in.” A small puddle forms. And the blood keeps running. On and on. It runs and runs and runs and runs.
Erika, as always the well-groomed teacher, has no regrets about leaving her musical headquarters today. Her inconspicuous departure is accompanied by blasting horns and trumpets and the wail of a single violin; everything bursts through the windows at the same time. Erika barely weighs on the outside steps. Today, Mother isn’t waiting. Erika instantly and resolutely heads in a direction that she has already taken several times in the past. The way does not lead straight home. Perhaps some splendid big, bad wolf is leaning against a rustic telegraph pole, picking the remnants of his latest victim from his teeth. Erika would like to place a milestone in her monotonous life and invite the wolf with her gazes. She will spot him from far away and catch the sound of skin being torn and flesh ripped. By then, it will be late in the evening. The event will loom from the fog of musical half-truths. Erika strides resolutely.
Chasms of streets open up, then close again because Erika can’t make up her mind to enter them. She simply stares straight ahead when a man happens to wink at her. He isn’t the wolf, and her vagina doesn’t flutter open; it clamps shut,hard as steel. Erika jerks her head like a huge pigeon, to send the man packing. Terrified by the landslide he’s triggered, he loses all desire to use or protect this woman. Erika sharpens her face arrogantly. Her nose, her mouth—everything becomes an arrow pointing in one direction; it plows through the area as if to say: Keep moving. A pack of teenagers makes a derogatory comment about Erika, the lady. They don’t realize they are dealing with a professor, and they show no respect. Erika’s pleated skirt with its checkered pattern covers her knees, not one millimeter too high or too low. She’s also wearing a silk middy, which covers her torso precisely. Her briefcase is clamped under her arm as usual, tightly zipped up closed. Erika has closed everything about her that could be opened.
Let’s take the trolley. It runs out into the working-class suburbs. Her monthly pass isn’t valid on this line, so she has to buy a ticket. Normally, she doesn’t travel here. These are areas you don’t enter if you don’t have to. Few of her students come from here. No music lasts longer here than the time it takes to play a number on a jukebox.
Small greasy spoons spit their light at the sidewalk. Groups of people argue in the islands of streetlights, for someone has said something wrong. Erika has to look at many unfamiliar things. Here and there, mopeds start up, rattling needle pricks into the air. Then they vanish quickly as if someone were waiting for them somewhere—in a rectory, where they’re throwing a party, and where they want to get rid of the moped drivers immediately for disturbing the peace and quiet. Normally, two people sit on a feeble moped to use up the space. Not everyone can afford a moped. Tiny cars are usually packed to capacity out here. Often a great-grandmother sits inside a car, amid her relatives who take her for a pleasure spin to the graveyard.
Erika gets out and continues on foot. She looks neither leftnor right. Employees lock and bolt the doors of a supermarket. In front, you can hear the final, gently throbbing engines of housewife chitchat. A soprano overcomes a baritone: The grapes were really moldy. The worst were at the bottom of the plastic basket. That’s why no one bought them today. All this is spread out loudly and rattlingly in front of the others—a garbage heap of complaints and anger. Behind the locked glass doors, a cashier wrestles with her register. She simply can’t track down the mistake. A child on a scooter and another child running alongside him, weeping and yammering that he’d like to ride it, the other kid
Erika, as always the well-groomed teacher, has no regrets about leaving her musical headquarters today. Her inconspicuous departure is accompanied by blasting horns and trumpets and the wail of a single violin; everything bursts through the windows at the same time. Erika barely weighs on the outside steps. Today, Mother isn’t waiting. Erika instantly and resolutely heads in a direction that she has already taken several times in the past. The way does not lead straight home. Perhaps some splendid big, bad wolf is leaning against a rustic telegraph pole, picking the remnants of his latest victim from his teeth. Erika would like to place a milestone in her monotonous life and invite the wolf with her gazes. She will spot him from far away and catch the sound of skin being torn and flesh ripped. By then, it will be late in the evening. The event will loom from the fog of musical half-truths. Erika strides resolutely.
Chasms of streets open up, then close again because Erika can’t make up her mind to enter them. She simply stares straight ahead when a man happens to wink at her. He isn’t the wolf, and her vagina doesn’t flutter open; it clamps shut,hard as steel. Erika jerks her head like a huge pigeon, to send the man packing. Terrified by the landslide he’s triggered, he loses all desire to use or protect this woman. Erika sharpens her face arrogantly. Her nose, her mouth—everything becomes an arrow pointing in one direction; it plows through the area as if to say: Keep moving. A pack of teenagers makes a derogatory comment about Erika, the lady. They don’t realize they are dealing with a professor, and they show no respect. Erika’s pleated skirt with its checkered pattern covers her knees, not one millimeter too high or too low. She’s also wearing a silk middy, which covers her torso precisely. Her briefcase is clamped under her arm as usual, tightly zipped up closed. Erika has closed everything about her that could be opened.
Let’s take the trolley. It runs out into the working-class suburbs. Her monthly pass isn’t valid on this line, so she has to buy a ticket. Normally, she doesn’t travel here. These are areas you don’t enter if you don’t have to. Few of her students come from here. No music lasts longer here than the time it takes to play a number on a jukebox.
Small greasy spoons spit their light at the sidewalk. Groups of people argue in the islands of streetlights, for someone has said something wrong. Erika has to look at many unfamiliar things. Here and there, mopeds start up, rattling needle pricks into the air. Then they vanish quickly as if someone were waiting for them somewhere—in a rectory, where they’re throwing a party, and where they want to get rid of the moped drivers immediately for disturbing the peace and quiet. Normally, two people sit on a feeble moped to use up the space. Not everyone can afford a moped. Tiny cars are usually packed to capacity out here. Often a great-grandmother sits inside a car, amid her relatives who take her for a pleasure spin to the graveyard.
Erika gets out and continues on foot. She looks neither leftnor right. Employees lock and bolt the doors of a supermarket. In front, you can hear the final, gently throbbing engines of housewife chitchat. A soprano overcomes a baritone: The grapes were really moldy. The worst were at the bottom of the plastic basket. That’s why no one bought them today. All this is spread out loudly and rattlingly in front of the others—a garbage heap of complaints and anger. Behind the locked glass doors, a cashier wrestles with her register. She simply can’t track down the mistake. A child on a scooter and another child running alongside him, weeping and yammering that he’d like to ride it, the other kid
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