The first weekend begins Friday, August 9, 2013, in the German capital city of Berlin.
To the unmistakable sounds of low rumble hustle of traffic and the happy chirps and tweets of birds. That’s strange, because I’m asleep; aren’t I? It’s much better if I’m not, a warm and gentle possibility in the spotlight of my mind.
My eyes struggle to open, brilliant morning light streaming through the open balcony windows and past the billowing room-high drapes. I pad slowly to the source of the light, and part the drapes to see what’s outside. I’m on the 5th-floor apartment of an “Alt Bau” in the city’s Westend. The apartment’s windows face north which means plenty of summer morning light.
I open the bedroom door. She smiles at me, her gaze warm and alive as a summer breeze. “Good morning.”
From that August weekend, I’ve kept a single promise to let her know I’m thinking about her. I’ve sent a text-message every single weekend without fail. Except for one weekend about a year ago when I missed my schedule, and she promptly sent an e-mail asking – no, demanding to know – if things were all right, if I was all right. There’s busy and there’s her kind of busy, and I understand all of it. Her urgent message strikes something solid, commencing the melt for the first time in a very long time.
On December 9, 2015, she asks me to stop.