Page 17

Micki

Frustrated, I let my head sink into my hands. I can’t concentrate. My thoughts revolve around black curls and blue eyes. Blue eyes with tears swimming in them. So hurt. And it’s all my fault. Because I was so naive and convinced myself that maybe he really had fallen for me. But straight men don’t fall in love with gay men. Well, they do, if they think they’re women.

I bite painfully the inside of my lower lip in the hope my heart might not hurt quite so much, but it doesn’t work. My first patient arrives in four minutes. She’s here for the first time and I should be reading through her medical records, but I’m just not getting anywhere. Condition after a cruciate ligament rupture surgery , that’s all I memorized so far.

There’s a knock at the door and the receptionist’s head pokes through. “Hey, your patient’s here. Can I bring her in?” It doesn’t help. I nod wordlessly and get up.

I greet the girl with a firm handshake and introduce myself. I didn’t look at her date of birth, but she seems young.

“Hi, I just saw the weirdest thing in the parking lot. Oh my God!”

No, she’s definitely not eighteen yet. “What happened?”

“I came from the bus stop and walked across the parking lot, and I passed this car with a French license plate and the guy in it was literally crying.”

My thoughts gallop off like a herd of wild horses, completely uncontrollable. I swallow hard to somehow get my emotions in check, but my voice still sounds shaky. “What did that guy look like?”

“Well, he might have been a bit too old for me, but I think he could have been hot. Dark hair, curls. That’s all I saw. I mean, he was sitting in the car.” That can’t be a coincidence. It’s too perfect. There’s no way this could be a coincidence. In three quick steps I’m at the window, only to realize that this side of the building faces the Kinzig and not the parking lot. I feel emotionally deeply connected to the “hand in front of head/how stupid can you actually be” emoji right now.

But if it was him, what is he doing here? Why is he here? In front of my work. My brain immediately starts conjuring up happy ending scenarios again and I have to really restrain myself to not run into the parking lot in a daze, but to take care of my patient.

***

My day sucked hard. I just want to forget. I just want to stop hurting. Is that too much to ask? He doesn’t want me, my mind knows and understands that, but my heart refuses to accept the memo.

If it was him this morning, why was he here? Why did he drive three hours from Dijon?

It’s back again, this stupid hope creeping into my heart, convincing me that maybe I do have a chance, that we have a chance. And if we do, I’m definitely not going to miss it, I’d never forgive myself.

My phone is heavy in my hand. I’m afraid of doing the wrong thing, writing the wrong text and ruining everything. But everything is already in shambles anyway, it can’t get any worse. Or could it? I resolutely open WhatsApp.

“Mathéo. I’m so sorry how things went down. I never wanted to lie to you, I never wanted to hide the fact that I’m a man. I just assumed you knew. That was my biggest mistake and yet I can’t bring myself to regret it, because just the idea that I’d have never had a chance getting to know you is worse than anything I’m going through now. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss a single second of our video chats, a single second with you. If you’re done with me and never want to see me again, I can understand that. But if you feel like there’s still a little place for me somewhere in your life and maybe even in your heart, I’m willing to fight for you. You have to tell me though, because I don’t want to bother you or make things worse for you. I miss you. I miss you a lot. Micki”

***

I didn’t get an answer. I spent the first week glued to my phone. Complete nonsense, as my smartwatch would have told me if I had received a message, but I was just hoping that... Well, I was hoping a lot of things.

The second and third week were the worst, when the certainty sank in that Mathéo wasn’t going to text back, that I really had lost him. Forever.

Many men have broken my heart, but never like this. It has never felt so final and hopeless. Now I’m sitting at the bar in this club somewhere in Stuttgart. We danced in a big competition earlier and booked a hotel for the night. Nika and Philipp left with their husbands. I could have gone with them, but I really can’t stand happy couples right now.

A guy has been watching me for a while now, smiling at me invitingly. He’s hot and he knows it. Whether or not he also knows that I’m a man, I’m not so sure. I’m still in my stage outfit with full make-up, which is the perfect illusion.

“Hey sexy, what can I order you?”

“If you still want to buy me a drink knowing I have a cock in my pants, then Bacardi Cola.”

Laughing, he throws his head back and motions at my crotch with a challenging look. “I wouldn’t be here if I’d expected anything else.” Phew, he really goes for it. But not in a pushy, unpleasant way. He’s laughing, it feels uncomplicated and free and that somehow feels good. I know he wants more. I don’t, but that doesn’t matter for now.

I never had a type, now I compare everyone to Mathéo. To Mathéo, whom I can’t have.

I’m sitting here with a really hot guy with dark blond hair and blue eyes. But they’re not as blue as Mathéo’s...