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.” [...]
I did it. When Sasha and I parted, after two more make-out sessions with our coats already on, had we been wearing polyester it would have caught fire, he left me with his phone number, and hints to next times and future dates. But the emotion I had when Sasha then disappeared, never to be heard from again, was surprise and amusement. Not despair. Not anger. Sasha was the best lover I had in four years, but I wasn’t the same woman as I was four years ago. I’m not even the same as four weeks ago. I’m colder, harder. My heart doesn’t melt that easily anymore. [...]
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. [...]
Gained a kilo from yesterday’s WelcomehomeImissedyoulikecrazy-lunch with Marieke, which included me making an infinite amount of baby muffins with my pink muffin maker. Today, she suggested it might be healthy for us to get a breath of fresh air. It was drizzling though, and it looked like the sun would set at 16.00. “Okay. Coffee and a brownie?” We met at our favorite coffee bar, where they have a big red cat and male owners, father and son. [...]
“Wanna come over tonight?” Jacqueline texted. “I made a new soup you haven’t tasted.” Jacqueline could have invited me for celery sticks and re-heated pizza and I still would have sprinted downtown, but her soup is fabulous. I’m strongly opposed to the can-still-be-eaten-without-teeth food group, but Jacqueline never processes it. The cilantro leaves swirl around big chunks of freshly grilled fish. The yellow corn hooks up with the spinach leaves. She will drip olive oil over it last minute, or serve it with half a lime for you to squeeze. Her soup would bring me back to life, on my death bed, even if it was just because of the copious amounts of ginger that she uses. [...]
It’s been a year today, that I first rang the bell of my yoga teacher LS Harteveld. “Ha! You look like an archaeologist!” she welcomed me as she opened the door. I inspected my clothes, but couldn’t detect any shovels or Sahara sand. [...]
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