I like watching people. And this woman is remarkable. She's nearly bald. Her head must've been shaved fairly recently because there's just a fine dark shadow of hair. She drinks carefully out of a small glass, something strong, maybe cognac, or whiskey, I can't tell from here. There's something about her that reminds me of a young animal, perhaps a deer, the same watchful nervousness. She's wearing a suit that's both elegant and a little too large. It's grayish-green, brownish, like mud and dried grass. I have a sudden urge to touch her neck. A flood of images runs through my head: I think about the canvas sacks, about my childhood, about the soldiers' uniforms, and my mother, who, much later, is standing in front of our house outside of Leipzig. It's plastered with thick mortar and has that color so common for East German houses: grayish-green, brownish. My mother is smiling. She's wearing a red dress. My thoughts race. I watch the woman at the bar, this person, this creation, I can't keep my eyes off her. Now I linger on her large meaty hands. I imagine she has a deep sensual voice. The rain is really coming down now, it beats against the large windows, and I notice the doors keep opening. Soaked people step in and wait impatiently to be seated. They shake their umbrellas, brush off their overcoats with their hands, and try to fix their hair. Then she turns halfway. And now I can see her face. It's pale. Her eyes are large and dark, and she's heavily made up with black and brown makeup. I think: dramatic and tasteful. She keeps an eye on the doors, and I can't take my eyes off her face. It's a fantastic face. Full of expression, almost theatrical. She keeps an eye on the doors. Maybe she's waiting for someone. She smokes and runs a hand over the top of her head. She looks at her watch. She empties her glass, throwing her head back to get the last few drops. As she's putting the glass down in front of her, her face lights up in a smile. I turn my head to see whom she's smiling at. He nods and smiles back, raising his hand in an awkward wave. His glasses are steamed up. He walks over, passing close by me, now he's right in front of her. They kiss each other lightly on the cheeks. He says a few words to the waiter who shows them to a table. He shakes his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. Suddenly I think about roses. I breathe deeply in through my nose and almost smell the heavy, perfumed scent. I close my eyes and think about all that precedes that scent: the buds of spring, aphids and beetles, heat waves, summer rain. Then, at last, the flowers swelling and unfolding. I don't know why, but I think about roses, about fields full of roses, endless fields of roses, white and red and yellow. When I open my eyes again, they've sat down facing each other and are studying the menu. A moment later they order. She fidgets nervously with her napkin. Her eyes never leave him for a second. I brush some crumbs to the floor. Then he begins to talk, intently and at length.
* * *
He does all the talking. She smiles and her eyes move over him like caresses: his face, his hands, his chest. She beams at him. Then suddenly I can't see anything at all. I shake my head. A moment later my sight returns. He talks and talks, leaning forward, leaning back, the mouth going, hands gesticulating, taking off his glasses, putting them on again, then he leaps up and walks over to the stairs to the bathrooms. His corduroy pants divulge a wide ass. Over his shirt he's wearing a leather vest. His glasses flash for a moment, though I can't make out the source of light. He disappears down the stairs. She looks longingly after him. Then she starts tearing the napkin into tiny pieces. A moment later the waiter comes with tea. There are croissants and soup, and an egg as well. She gathers up the bits of paper in her hand and lets them float down over the table. A strange, stiff smile bares her front teeth, which turn out to be separated by a large gap.
The soup is for him. The egg is too, apparently. He eats greedily as she smokes, speaking as he eats; she watches him full of admiration, and the hand she's not smoking with moves closer to his arm, his elbow; without touching him, her hand rests on the tablecloth near the bend of his elbow, as if she were going to grab it, as if her hand were lying in wait. My vision fails again. My eyes burn and sting. I press them hard, turning my knuckles around and around. A moment later, I realize that the couple to the right of me has also noticed them. I'm sure of it. The woman whispers something to her husband.
* * *
I see his rounded back under the vest. I see his face in profile, the vague contour of his chin, lost with age. Then she bends forward and kisses him gently on the cheek. He grabs her hand and squeezes it. Their hands encircle each other's, resting quietly on the white tablecloth. I notice the taste of blood. I must've bit my lip, and with my tongue I find the piece of flesh and spit it out into the napkin. It's bleeding surprisingly hard. I notice how dark it's become. The rain's calming down. It's Saturday. Outside the cranes are glowing. I begin to think about something I read somewhere, "Berlin is a wound that no longer bleeds, but a wound that still needs to be scratched." It made me furious, how horribly pathetic that sounds. I shake my head. I unzip my bag. The tea cake has an overwhelming scent of vanilla. I search anxiously for my money and keys. Then I put the bag down on the floor. I raise my empty cup. And now they get up and move across the polished floor, in and out of the tables. The sound of her boots. She's really tall. He's a little shorter and stooped, and it looks to me like he drags one of his feet behind the other. I have a clear view of his left ear. I feel an affection for that ear. He pushes the door open, and she glides by him. I gather my things quickly and place myself in the window. They walk through the red light. He puts his arm around her waist. He squeezes and presses with his hand. They stop under the streetlight and kiss each other. She bends down to make herself shorter so that she can reach his mouth. He squeezes and presses and sticks his hand under her jacket.
* * *
It almost looks like she's gnawing on him. She's straightened her back and puts her arms around him, bends her neck, holding her head at an angle. It's a very long kiss. All the while he presses her up against the building. The yellow light from the street lamp falls on parts of their faces. He looks so small. The watermelon is so heavy in the plastic bag. I'm about to drop it. He's opened her jacket, and now he's kissing her neck. For a moment it seems like she's looking me in the eye, and then she throws her head back. She doesn't have a blouse on under her jacket. I get a glimpse of the skin on her stomach. He kisses her breasts. One of my legs is numb. I wiggle the foot but it won't go away. A young man stops and stares at them. She must've noticed because suddenly she closes her jacket. He looks around confused, and again there's that light reflecting off his glasses. She grabs his arm. The young man, who is now walking away, looks back several times over his shoulder. And they take off, arm in arm, Oranienburgerstrasse, cutting over to the S-Bahn, Hackescher Markt. I get a glimpse of her looking at him smiling, and of him putting his head on her shoulder. Then they're gone.