Page 3 of Tattooed Sweetness
… the can lets out a small whimper of defeat as it dies.
As much as I shake the can, nothing comes out. I hurl it into the trash can and open the bathroom cabinet. Nothing.Didn’t I ask Bella to buy some last Saturday? When I sat in the parlor the entire day with a client who had traveled from Berlin especially to see me?
Screw it, there’s no point in starting another fight now. I grab one of her pink deodorant spray cans: empty. The second, third, and last one. All are empty, too.
Which at least explains why my deodorant was empty.
Instead of shopping, this jerk has simply used mine.
I sniff under my armpit, contort my face and test whether hand wash with a mango scent will help me out. Needless to say, my masculine shower gel bottle hasn’t released a drop either. Oh shit, the blend makes me smell even more like a rutting tiger. Imported directly from the Indian jungle, nicely presented in an exotic fruit basket.
Okay, I’m not going to kill her now…
First of all, I’m not guaranteed to make it to my appointment, and secondly, it’s not a good idea to show up at a loan meeting with a homicide squad on my heels.
Bella has probably smelled what’s up. I hear the apartment door slam behind her.
Fine. Back in the bedroom, I get into a fresh pair of boxers, socks, and jeans.At least, for once, Madame seems to have done the laundry.From the closet, I grab the black turtleneck shirt I bought especially for this appointment.
In the hallway, I grimace at my reflection as I almost slip into my worn canvas jacket out of habit. At least I don’t have to worry about fixing my hair. I grab the folder with the documents from the pile towering on the booming radiator, which miraculously doesn’t fall off.
Here goes nothing!
Taking two steps at a time, I memorize what I wrote down on the post-it:CCI Mosbach Tuesday, February 16, 2016 Appointment with Mr. Lechner 8:00 am. Icy fog swallows me on the way to the truck. Only a few meters before I reach it, I recognize Bella leaning against the driver’s door.
That’s all I needed…
But my resentment fades as she wordlessly holds out a large coffee-to-go cup and opens the door for me after I’ve unlocked it. “Good luck,” she wishes me, and I hope the engine starts on the first try.
And thankfully, it does.
Due to fog, I’m at the stop sign for the on-ramp to the federal highway B292 not seven, but twelve minutes later. Summoning my last ounce of patience, I wait for a gap in the line of approaching cars and delivery trucks to let the Dodge thread in with spinning tires.
The risky driving maneuver earns me an indignant honk from the driver behind me. He overtakes me at high speed as soon as we reach the four-lane section of the highway.
“Go fuck yourself,” I snap at his demonstrative middle finger extended through the window of the passenger door, and allow myself a first sip of the cappuccino, which has cooled down to drinking temperature. Yes, even though Bella initially couldn’t get over the fact that atough guylike me drinks only lattes: I confess to this, as well as to the condition that it has to be cow’s milk only.
Her vegan phase in the summer… No, focus! I should concentrate on the upcoming appointment!
To avoid the queues at the red lights at the intersections, I use the shortcut via the exit to the shopping center. I’m running late now anyway, but I can still gain a few minutes by doing so.
My lucky streak continues. Directly opposite the modernist concrete cube that houses the branch office, I find a free space on the parking deck. And, what’s more, a kind female driver hands me her parking ticket, which is far from expired.
Maybe I should dress up like this more often?I toast my slightly distorted reflection in the windows of the entrance with my coffee mug, take another deep breath and push the door open.Welcome to the lion’s den…
A sign on the counter says the receptionist is out sick. I look at my cheat sheet and curse myself.Of course, I forgot to write down the room number of that Mr.… What’s-his-name.
Clasping the cardboard rim of the coffee mug between my teeth, I balance the cell phone on the folder in my hands and search for the number so I can quickly ring through—
“Whoa!”
—when something or someone hits me in the back.
Fucking hell!
The coffee spills over, pouring a light brown stain over my classy turtleneck and the documents.
I’m almost glad my cell phone fell to the floor before it could take a bath in the milky broth. Struggling to breathe calmly, I turn around.