Lauren is spending every weekend doing it with a man she calls Jax. But will this new mysterious man be any different then the 50 Shades of Shady she suffered before? And how about her book, will she ever publish? [...]
|
|
|
Al maanden nemen we elkaar mee naar onze favoriete hang-outs. Louka weet inmiddels waar ze de beste bitterballen serveren, en ik waar alle afgestudeerden flirten. Louka is verliefd geworden op de kater van mijn koffiebar, en ik op het fotomodel van zijn koffiehuisje. Een pandajaar is een jaar waarin je geen seks hebt. En Louka is mijn panda vriend. Totdat ik mij, zo waarschuwde Louka “weer ieder weekend door negers laat nemen”. “Wanneer loopt je panda jaar af?” informeert Louka. “Negen maart. Ik ben er ook wel aan toe moet ik zeggen.” [...] 
Famke vindt me bij de kalenders. “Deze is wel leuk niet?” wapper ik met een Loesje week kalender, “Ik hou altijd alles bij, met jongens enzo.” “Loesje? Dat is hyper aseksueel.” Famke trekt een onsmakelijk gezicht. “Ik wil eigenlijk weer een Pluk kalender,” beken ik. “Pluk van de Petteflet. Zeker nog erger.” “Pluk is in elk geval een jongetje.” Onderweg van het station naar ons café geeft ze toe dat het ook wel iets voor haar is, een jongenskalender. “Ik bedacht gisteren nog dat er maar één man was in 2012. Maar toen bleek dat ik allemaal kansloze kerels was vergeten. Dat zou mij met zo’n kalender niet overkomen. [...] 
I made a list of all the men I was in love with, since reaching singlehood at mid-thirty. Some lived around the corner, some existed mainly in my head, but ultimately, nine of them are gone. Amor finit. I even fantasize about how I could run into Valentino and just talk to him in a normal way, ensuring him that we’re cool, and that my emotional days are behind me. Nine down, one to go. Once I beat this final crush, on Rafael, I will be completely free. [...] 
In the dark, dancing, belly of the theater I met him, Rafael; Writer, performing artist, occasional DJ and the man who reminded me so strongly of Benjamin. Epic. [...] 
Clicked to Twitter. Checked messages. Opened emails. Wrote three opening sentences for this diary entry, which I all deleted. I thought I knew what I wanted to write after my trip today: A homage to my mother’s side of the family, and about the city where they have lived for generations, my two elderly great-aunts, the park my grandmother took us. Yet all I feel are worries about the great-aunt I visited. And I can’t share it, or won’t. Can’t make myself write that down. [...] 
Why couldn’t I wait until after my last workday? Or after the weekend away with my mother? Why did I read the last three chapters of the Johan Fretz novel tonight? The grief that has been accompanying me from the first page, had become a companion. Not an easy one, but one that I got to know better and better. At first, grief was aging. Then grief was regrets. Grief became a childhood, a first love, a father who was sick. And in the last chapters grief had blossomed into Benjamin, and was the earth shattering sex we never had. [...] |
|
|
Copyright 2011 L.S. Harteveld. Design by AlfaBetty, code by Valentijn |
|