Wijfstrand lets his hand run through his hair, out to the hair tips and then sits with a slightly astonished expression, apparently surprised that his hair is not longer. He looks at me in wonder.
“Now I’m asking stupidly. Isn’t my hair longer than this?”
Wijfstrand grins. It is clear to me that he is one of those rascals who are bad at loving.
“I have a little eczema. Can one tell?”
Wijfstrand tells me about his latest experience with love. A young woman with 24 mental disorders who fell in love with him.
“She was good at fucking. I know it sounds silly.”
No, it sounds bad. Not stupid.
“Bad? Me?”
Yes. Bad. You.
“Bad you too?”
No, you bad.
Our conversation is obviously very strange. Wijfstrand sips his latte. I feel a sudden desire to twist Wijfstrands arm and give him a kick. An energetic knight could have done it, a hero in a comic book, kicked him because existence does not seem to have done so. Yet. Strangely enough.
You’ll get a difficult life.
“Difficult? Me?”
Yes.
“Difficult you too?”
No, difficult you.
Wijfstrand uses me as a mirror. He awaits my reactions and may look up to me. Now he rises from the table and walks down towards the lake. He stops and pricks up his ears. No, he can safely drink from the water. He is very lonely. When we sit at the table again, he has brought me a cloak.
“Because you’re so clever.”
I blush, thank him and fold up the cloak and put it in my bag.
My eyes say:
“You are bad at loving.”
His eyes say:
“I know. I cann’t help it.”
My eyes say:
“It does not matter. Just remember we pay ourselves. You owe me $ 28.”
His eyes say:
“I have the money here. Can you give back on fifty?”
