The stop is at Schönleinstraße, and the city is Berlin. One suitcase up the subway stairs to a Saturday sunrise, a churlish Birkin brunette on a green Dutch bike with one hand on the handle, the other swigging champagne. “I could get used to this,” I thought, headily, in Technicolour.
That was ten years ago. Today it snows, one street away from that original logement. I watch the canvas sky that I once scoured for a sign of morning, framed by the white window frames, red rooves silted yet too wet for the flakes to stick -- transfixed by that banal intimate view we shared in bed -- that white bed, these white walls, this white curtain.
Mongrel comes home in six hours. It’s his second snow.