By Alix Reynolds

“I don’t quite know what you mean,” Helen said, folding the loose flap back over the box. “We talked about this already. We’ll just take them out to the dumpster.”

“You don’t want to even look through her personal stuff?” the older man asked, swirling his iced tea around, causing the cubes to knock into the sides of the glass with a harsh tinkling.

“No. I’ve had those boxes for weeks. If I had wanted to look through them I’d have done it by now.” She hefted the heavy carton to her hip and took a long swig of her tea before lugging the box to the door. She nudged the screen door open with her knee and slowly navigated the cardboard through the opening before walking quickly to the large green dumpster at the head of the driveway. The man watched her balance the box on the curve of the dumpster as she swung the lip open and then heaved the box over the side and down into turgid black bags of yesterday’s dinner and kitty litter scoopings. When she came back, there was a look of satisfaction on her face.

“That dumpster smells vile,” Helen said, propping the screen door open and brushing attic dust from her slick shoulder. She added a packet of sugar to her tea, and took another drink form her glass. “There’s something about this Caroline head that makes garbage smell stronger.”

“Don’t garbage stink in Massachusetts?” he asked.

“Well I suppose it does,” she said, ripping the top off of another packet of sugar. “But it doesn’t get as sweltering there. The rubbish doesn’t have the chance to stink like that.” She poured the sugar into her glass and stirred it aggressively. “And my neighbors don’t use so much packaging. We eat more fresh food up there, so there’s less to throw away.”

“You mean fresh stuff don’t stink when it rots?”

Helen set down the long stemmed spoon and turned, one mauve-manicured hand resting on her hip.

“Well I don’t know, Marvin,” she said sharply. “But I know that my dumpster in Springfield does not make me retch when I open it. Not even in August.”

“I guess I’m just confused because you seem to think that this is another planet down here. The garbage smells worse, the people talk different, grocery stores are bad…”

“It is another planet,” she said frantically. “My mother’s planet. I left for a reason, you know.” Marvin held up an arthritic hand of surrender.

“She packed those boxes for you to look at, Helen. I helped her, as any good neighbor would, right before she went to the hospital for her last round of chemo.”

“Well, she should have known better. I came down to fix up her house for sale, but I know what’s in those boxes. It’s all the stuff I happily left behind.”

“Well I’m not throwing Frances’s things out,” he said sadly. “It yours now though, so you do what you want with “˜em.” Helen poured another packet of sugar into her glass, still stirring.

“You know, down here, you can buy the tea already sweetened…?” he offered, standing up.

From his kitchen window, Marvin watched Helen carry the rest of her mother’s boxes to the dumpster, noticing that each time she hefted the dilapidated cardboard over the side she did it more slowly than the last time. After her sixth trip, she paused for a second, sniffing the air as she wiped her forehead with her hand, a look of satisfaction growing on her face. As she went back into the house, she closed the screen down behind her. He shook his head sadly as he fed his dog, his bad hip groaning as he placed the full bowl on the floor.

When he heard the sound of a screen door smack shut, he went back to the window and saw Helen gazing into the dumpster, one hand on her hip, the other still clutching the glass of sweet iced tea.

By B. Mapletree

.It began that night with a full stop.

On the surface, days drift by and the rivers wander past, down the lane, but probe deeper, and scope out the seamy underside of despair and disillusionment that seeps into the groundwater and gives it that chalky taste. You can get rid of it with a “Brita” filter, but you definitely don’t want to drink from the tap.

Apparently, when Custer’s men rounded up the indigenous peoples and forced them out of the valley, the chief cursed the water, so that any white man who drank it would be unable to leave.

The “Brita” could filter out the curse. I don’t know.

Ballpoint ink and bicycle grease tattooed his lower legs with streaks and smudges and a little heart on his knee. Her face glowed LCD, eyes on the laptop screen.

How much you got to go on that thing?

Ugh, too much.

Outside, bro dudes wax patriarchal to the sunset or whoever’s listening.

I could never go on a road trip with Sean, he’d be pissing every five minutes.

Her paper is on some Spike Lee film that he’d never seen, but seemed interesting. She typed seriously, with intent, looking frustrated.

Seriously, he pisses more than anyone I’ve ever met.

Count the birds outside on fingers and toes and still run out of space as nature screams in revolt over the traffic and sub-woofers. Crickets and cell phones chirp to other members of their respective species in a futile attempt to communicate effectively. Crickets have no mind for it; cell phones hear no art.

Stretches and cracks and she asks:

How’re you doin’?

Full of lollipops and sunshine.

I don’t know who it was that uncaulked the window on the third floor, but I heard it was an act of rebellion against property managers’ preferences for stuffy rooms with very little oxygen. Now the wind has room to breathe and a breeze brings in fresco from the outside world where no amount of caulk can govern air flow.

No, but seriously though, I’d have to bring along a gallon jug to keep in the car.

The quarter-pipe crew never ceases; wheels on plywood and occasional cheers of victory over physics can be heard as the last of the drunk parade lose their balance on home and even still as the bright aurora morrow shows the weather of almost two hundred winters on the face of East Hall.

The historic building perches topographically, looking over the city that has forgotten it with dignity and state, and even if there’s a tiny bit of resentment for obsessive novelty in its eyes, you wouldn’t be able to see it through the boarded-up windows.

Don’t worry, Mister, I’m almost done.

Take your time, Miss.

The student ghettos of College Town, America are owned by Corporate, America, the latter being willing slum(ish)lords all too aware of the lowered expectations of student-age persons, a population defined by common necessity for proximity and economy.

Don’t blame the kids for the hinges on the door up to the third floor being pulled off. They could’ve broken into the inaccessible portion of their rented home with much more violence or stupidity, possibly even forfeiting their security deposit. Blame falls on the fool that locked the damn thing out of laziness or pennywisdom or all-American apathy instead of rehabilitating the attic into habitable space.

Bro dudes have no mind for such things; bro dudes hear no art.

I woke up this morning at eight AM, my alarm was all like , “bZZZZZZZZ.”

It’s striking how different it would be if Pfizer hadn’t dipped out or if GM hadn’t invented planned obsolescence or if the E. Mich. Ave neighborhoods hadn’t been boarded up like some weird photo of 1970s Detroit, after the race riots and the Tigers won the Series. Imagine the “for lease” signs missing, and the absent shops and the shopkeepers returned, and it feels damn close to way too much, like when thoughts of candy shoot pain into that one tooth that probably has the cavity in it.

The rhetoric of past generations forces traffic onto five-lane, one-way thoroughfares that gut downtown, starving the northside and pouring liquid noise into the valley’s basin, drenching everything it floods past, like a wet security blanket nobody asked for. Crickets and cell phones and subs and drunks and Custer’s men and bro dudes sound off to nothing in particular, not worrying about the difference between people listening and being heard.

No mind, no art, yeah?

The laptop snams shut revealing big eyes and smiles.

I’m finished, mister.

That’s great news.

He stretched across the floor and grabbed the mushroom-shaped chillum that had been sitting by the baseboard, packed and patient.

I made this for you, miss.

Smoke curls with the same disabandon as the fire that spawns it and as the water and the lightning and her hair; the intersect of magic and science, of chaos and causality.

It began that night with a full stop.

Ends with a fragment.

 

By Alix Reynolds

I sat on the boat longer than I had ever intended, staring at the puddle of coffee that had collected in my saucer. I felt somehow distanced from the world around me, distanced from myself, and I didn’t bother squinting to discern facial features from the blurs hovering above an assortment of colored shirts moving along my periphery.

Most of the passengers who had either come or gone had been disappointed by the weather, for the pie-crust promise of sun had been broken by the time most of the tourists had ordered coffee. I found the chilly breeze and fragmented sunlight less dismal, however, and more ironic.

That I was alone, should have tipped him off to the fact that I was neither a tourist, nor on a pleasure cruise. I was using the slow-moving passenger barge as a viable mode of transportation, a time to think, remember, and then try my best to forget. I had ordered the coffee out of habit, and had no intention of drinking it. He tried to use my abandoned beverage to strike up conversation.

I should have known the second he mentioned Starbucks that he would be hard to dislodge.

I knew I’d be late, since I had chosen to not get off the barge at Oberkassel, or any of the next few stops and catch a train that would have allowed me to catch my Inter-City Express from Koblenz to Mainz. Instead I stalled, stared at my coffee, and watched those familiar train stations float by. I knew they wouldn’t start without me, though part of me hoped if I came late enough the funeral would already be over, and I could pretend like the whole event had never happened.

I wouldn’t have to hear the pity in people’s voices, or feel the guilt. I wouldn’t have to regret asking my parents to move here. I wouldn’t have to think about who the driver had been. Had the doctor not spoken English? I wondered. Why was it that particular doctor, in that hospital, at that specific time, had not understood what my mother had tried to say?

“Doesn’t quite measure up to Starbucks, does it?” he asked, ripping me out of my snare of memories like an unruly weed. He must have seen my copy of The Tempest on the table next to me, which I had brought more as a prop than something to read, and deduced that I spoke English. I glanced up, already knowing what I would see. He was the worst kind of tourist, with camera and passport-pouch slung around his neck like gold medals, and nylon cargo pants. It took me a minute before I remembered I even had coffee sitting in front of me. I paid my cup a quick visit with my eyes before returning my disdainful glance back to his face. I shrugged and looked over the railing, away from his friendly face, hoping he’d take the hint. I should have known the second he mentioned Starbucks that he would be hard to dislodge.

I had found that while I never minded pointing an American tourist in the right direction to Beethoven’s house or to the closest subway station, I resented the tourists who assumed that because I was a native American, I was a friend. I was not ashamed of being American by birth, but it was only my childhood and parents that were not German, and I was proud of my linguistic talents and of my German passport. I had gained citizenship through my brief marriage to a German actor, and I wondered if our relationship had been in existence only because subconsciously I wanted to be a German. I can summarize my relationship with Franc by saying that as a twenty-five year old American I married him, and at twenty-six and a half I was a German divorcee. Ironically, it was after I had moved out that I realized that I might have been in love with Franc the whole time.

“I’ve been all over Europe,” he continued, no doubt thinking this would impress me. “And nothing is as good as a caramel Frappuccino.” He smiled at me as I wondered if I ought to mask the look of disgust I knew was on every line of my face. “Unfortunately, Starbucks is an American-only privilege.” He had the typical American arrogance to not realize I could well be Australian or British.

Seeing I’d never be rid of him while being subtle, I answered.

“I find Frappuccinos to be an assault on my senses, and an insult to coffee. I drink coffee straight because I genuinely like the taste, not because drinking coffee is thought to be a sign of sophistication. And there’s a Starbucks across from the United Colors of Bennington in the Innenstadt of Bonn, and another one in Münsterplatz. There’s also one near the base of the cathedral in Cologne.” Instead of being the blistering speech I had intended this to be, he took my words for an invitation. His face lit up, and he sat down across from me.

“Fascinating!” he exclaimed. “An American who doesn’t like Starbucks.” I saw him wondering if I ate at McDonald’s, but thankfully he didn’t insult me by asking. “Where do you live?” I sighed inwardly, but didn’t have the energy to ignore him, so I told him.

“In Bonn.”

“No, no,” he said, laughing good-humoredly, “not while visiting. I mean where is your house?”

“My apartment,” I said, feeling tired and sadder than I had all afternoon, “is on Hermangasse a few blocks from the Bonn-Beuel train station.” This tripped him up for a minute, and I hoped that’d be the end of our discussion.

“You’re German?” he asked, confused by my accent-free English.

“Legally.” His confusion irritated me, so I did my best to quickly explain. “I’m American by birth, but I married a German man, and now have German citizenship. I rescinded my American citizen ship after my divorce.” He still looked confused.

“Why did you give up your American citizenship?”

“Ja, also, German’s don’t really accept dual citizenship, especially when it’s suggested by marriage. I chose to give-up my American passport.”

“Why?”

“Because I love it here,” I told him, and it was true. He looked like he was about to launch into a soliloquy about the wonders of America, when the deep-voiced man over the loudspeaker announced the stop of Unkel. I knew Unkel was on the wrong side of the river from any of the stops where I could get the train to Mainz, but I had to get away from the tourist. I only hoped I wouldn’t have to wait too long in Unkel for the ferry to take me to Rolandseck on the other side of the river.

I leapt up from my seat, terrified that he’d follow, and threw my book into my purse. He looked both stunned and disappointed that I was leaving so suddenly.

“Don’t go,” he said. His simple request startled me. I felt trapped, mostly because as little as I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to get to Mainz even less. “I came here with a group,” he said, as I stood frozen with my bag on my shoulder. “We traveled all around Europe. London, Paris, Barcelona, Rome, Venice, Vienna, Munich, Prague, Amsterdam, and Berlin. Twenty-five days. After we left Munich for Prague, I told our tour leader to please cancel my return ticket. I wanted to stay longer in Germany. But how to stay? I don’t speak the language, and I had no idea what to do. I didn’t feel like traveling around two days in each city, but I didn’t know what else to do.” Against my will, I felt my opinion of him changing as he talked. I let my bag fall from my hand back onto the table, and sat down. “An elderly gentleman on the tour had been to Germany before, and suggested I visit the Rhineland. Said he was disappointed that tours rarely went there, because it was so beautiful. So I took the train to Cologne, and I’ve been in a hotel there for the past two weeks. I wanted to find a place more… off the beaten path, so I am on this cruise looking for a little town where I can move for another few weeks.”

I stared at him, stunned by this unexpected disclaimer, and sank wearily back into my seat, letting my purse slither from my shoulder.

“Rhöndorf is sweet,” I say, guilted into being helpful. Again.

“Yeah? I’ve never heard of it.”

“If you just go places you’ve heard of, you’re only going places where tourists go,” I reasoned. “If you want authentic, you have to go places that tourists don’t go.”

“It’s like Schrödinger’s cat,” he said. I stared at him, baffled. He smiled as he took off his camera, letting it sit on the table by my coffee. “It’s a theory of quantum physics that the act of measuring something changes how it is.”

“Ach so,” I muttered, still confused. I do not like to be confused.

“You just can’t measure photons objectively,” he tries to explain. “The more you know about how fast a photon is traveling, the less you know about it’s location, and the more you know about it’s location, the less you can know about its speed.”

“I see.”

“I’m Zach, by the way. Zach Albright.” He held out his hand to me. I took it, cringing.

“Katrin.” I saw him mouth the word, trying to get the roll of the tongue right, the long “a” at the beginning. “Kathryn,” I supplied, hating to watch him fumble over the letters, “if that’s easier for you.” He smiled again. I had forgotten how Americans always smile.

“So how do I get to Rondorf?”

“Rhöndorf,” I corrected. “And we passed it a while ago.”

“Oh.”

He sounded so dejected that I felt bad, and added, “you can get off the boat at Linz and take the Regionalbahn up from there.” I pointed upstream to where I could just see the little village of Linz am Rhein beginning to appear around the bend in the river.

“Well, where are you headed?” he asked. “Are you getting off in Linz?”

“Uh, no,” I paused, hoping he’d take the hint not to ask, but his face remained eager, and I didn’t have the energy to be antagonistic. “I’m going to Mainz.”

“Oh!” His smile broadened. “What’s Mainz like? Where is it?”

“It’s really nice!” My enthusiasm escaped before I can stop myself. I attending university in Mainz, and, as a result, it will always hold a place in my heart. Mainz was also where I met Franc, and where I truly fell in love with Germany. “It’s a ways away,” I said, trying to calm the burning eagerness in his eyes. “I’m taking the boat to Koblenz, and then a 40 minute ICE from there.”

“That sounds like quite the adventure!” he was clearly waiting for an invitation, but I couldn’t figure out how to explain to him why I didn’t want him to come. There were so many reasons, none of which I was rude enough to articulate.

“I— you could come,” I said, beleaguered. If you wanted. But. I’m. Well. I’m going to a funeral.” He stared.

“Shit.” I stared back at the river, expecting him to go away at that point. “I’m really sorry.” I glanced back at him and was surprised to see that he really meant it. “Who— I’m sorry to have barged in on you like this. I’ll just…” He coughed.

“It’s fine,” I said, putting The Tempest back into my purse. “There’s no internment anyway. Cremation, you know… There’s just the… the gathering of friends and family. I just didn’t know how to bring it up. It’s not something you can just slide into casual conversation.”

“Well no,” he agreed, still looking abashed. “But I still feel really awful.” I gazed back over the side of the boat at Linz, now close enough to be easily defined as “quaint.” I could see the dock, and the young men in blue polos preparing to throw the fat ropes to the crew of the barge, and the yellow and white striped awnings on the Café-kart by the old wall.

“It’s funny how the river runs north…” Zach muttered, also staring over the side. “I guess it ends up in the Netherlands, somewhere?” He wasn’t really talking to me, I knew, but I was momentarily possessed.

“Do you still want to see Mainz?”

I didn’t tell him that it was my parents whose funeral we were going to, not even when we finally arrived in Koblenz and were sitting aboard a fast train to Mainz. I didn’t know how to explain why I was bringing him, mostly because I didn’t really know why I felt it would be a bearable abomination to invite the Classic American Tourist to the formal “celebration.” In addition, my parents were well liked, so I knew there would be hordes of people there, and I didn’t want to explain why I cared for so few of them. I wasn’t sure Zach-the-American would understand disliking good people.

Liking good people was something I’d never found difficult. I could easily resent someone for being a “better” person than I was, and my parents knew a lot of good people. And good people came to funerals to show their respects. Good people vocalized condolences to those “living on.” As the only child, that meant me, and I did not want to be alone when the harpies descended. So I brought Zach. I brought Zach in his cargo pants, with his camera and passport protector, with his big watch and gelled hair.

Next to him, I’d look undeniably native.

He watched me carefully as I mindlessly navigated the Hauptbahnhof in Mainz, not needed to read the signs, and steered him onto the track to wait for the ICE, which would arrive in 10 minutes. He bought a bar of chocolate while I bought the tickets from the machine.

“I hope you’re okay with marzipan,” he said, offering me half. “It was the only word I recognized. I didn’t know what the other kinds were.” I was pleased to see he’d gotten Rittersport, and not a Snickers bar. I took half of the bar, holding it in my hand as I slowly ate.

“I like marzipan.” I didn’t add that it was— had been— my father’s favorite too. When he and Mother had moved here, she’d said it was for the Reisling. He said he’d moved for the chocolate. I knew they really just moved for me.

Zach didn’t speak more than a few words for the duration of the train ride, and I wondered if it was because he was having second thoughts about accompanying a near stranger to a funeral in a foreign country, or if it was just because he was too busy staring at the castles we passed. My favorite was Marksburg, a massive cream-colored castle high on the bluff just before Mainz. Zach, judging by his face, found the Gutenfels to be the most delightful.

“Look at it!” he exclaimed to himself. “How did they build it like that, right in the middle of the river?”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking fondly at the red and white brick fortress. “But if you notice, it’s shaped like a boat, see? The upstream edge comes to a point. I’ve always heard that for floods.”

“Big floods,” Zach said. “It’s over thirty feet high!”

“Tja. So ist das eben.” He glanced at me, but I was already looking back out the window. “That’s just how it is,” I whispered.

 

 

My friend Grace had come over from New York, where she’d been living for the past three years, and under any other circumstances I would have been thrilled at the prospect of seeing her. Probably. The current circumstances meant that we’d be swarmed with people there who I didn’t want to see, the first one on the list being Franc, who I had invited out of awkward obligation.

Even after two years of separation, Franc still pressed a glass of white wine into my hand the moment I entered the room and did not ask about Zach, whose attire made him stand out more than his confused expression.

There were few men more German than Franc, which is perhaps why it was he that I married, and not the handsome Turk that had eventually ended my marriage. Franc does not address things… like men he sees me with, or our divorce. In the years we were married, he only twice told me he loved me. I can’t really blame Franc’s dislike for open displays of emotion for our failure as a pair, but I do think maybe I would have realized I loved him if I had not been afraid he didn’t feel the same way. Either way, it didn’t matter anymore because I was too proud to ever admit I had made a mistake by letting our marriage decay, and he had moved on. I doubt even Grace knew that I had realized that I had been in love with Franc. She never really liked him, so I suppose she didn’t question that I married him only for reasons of politics and practicality.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Franc’s brother said. Despite the fact that my German was much better than his English, he always felt the need to establish his dominance over me by speaking English. My struggle trying to claim my Germanness has always been made more difficult by Franc’s family. Grace told me once that regardless of my passport, I’m not German until they tell me I am. It made me so angry that Americans keep trying to keep me theirs that I hung up on her, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that she was right. I’d never admit it to her though, because I doubt she even remembers that late-night phone conversation that I initiated to tell her about my affair with Irem.

I felt like I was in a daze as I sipped the wine and allowed people to pour their sympathies over my ears like baptismal water.

“Thank you for inviting us, Kathryn,” Franc’s mother said. They also always spoke English to me, because just like Max, they wanted to put me beneath them. I don’t think they ever liked me, but our casual dislike for one another made Franc and my separation easier for both of us. It irritated me, too, that they stumbled over my name, trying to pronounce it the American way, instead of just saying “Katrin” with a rolled “r” like everyone else did.

“I’m glad you could come,” I say, making a gesture by responding in German, though I knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“Katie,” Grace said, coming over. She looked different, her hair was shorter and there was a mature look in her face I didn’t remember seeing. Or maybe it was just that I felt so confused by the whole event that everyone I had ever admired looked more together than I felt.

“Thank you for coming, Grace,” I said, and meant it. “I know they were second parents to you.” Grace smiled and hugged me, and I smelled the business-like floral scent of Clinique perfume.

“We’re family, Katie. Just make sure you remember that.” She kept her hand on my arm as she introduced herself to Zach, and I noticed a large diamond perched on her left hand. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if Eddie had finally proposed, so I didn’t say anything.

“Katie and I have known each other since we were seven,” Graced explained to Zach. “We were each adopted in to the other one’s family, but my parents moved to Florida six years ago, and I think they haven’t done enough to stay in touch.” Zach nodded, and I guessed from his face that he finally realized it was my parents who had died.

I took another long gulp from my glass as Franc returned and did his best to distract me with as general narrative of his recent acting exploits. I guess it made me happy to know he was doing well for himself, but I did feel bitterness that I had excluded myself from his bohemian life. As a UN translator—a job that inevitably sounded more exciting that it ever actually was— I missed the creativity Franc had brought out in me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Zach asked me quietly, as Grace greeted Franc icily. I watched as they exchanged the usual pleasantries.

“I don’t know,” I finally said. “I suppose I shouldn’t have brought you along. It’s all very macabre. But…”

“Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt,” Zach said solemnly, before realizing it was not the most polite phrase. It bought out a laugh from me though, probably because it was such a typically American idea to make a pun out of a serious emotion at a serious event, and it came so unexpected, that a slightly hysterical giggle escaped.

“I’m sorry,” he said, nervously toying with the trap of his passport protector.

“No, you’re right,” I admitted. “It’s my fault they’re dead,” I admitted, feeling like he ought to understand that much, at least. “Inadvertently, anyway.”

“What happened?” he asked softly.

“Allergies. Through some trick of fate they were both very allergic to morphine.” I laughed. “They used to joke about it being a sign that they were meant to be together. In any case. My parents didn’t speak much German, and couldn’t tell the nurse in the E.R. that they were allergic, so when they were brought in the ambulance, they were given morphine. In addition to the damage done by the car accident, they didn’t stand a chance with poison in their system.”

“How is that your fault?”

“They moved here because of me. After my husband and I got divorced, they tried to get me to move back to Pittsburg, but I refused. I asked them to move here instead, not expecting them to come. But they did.” I took a large mouthful of wine and ran to between my teeth, suddenly very aware of how crazy and selfish I must sound.

“Do you still speak with your husband?” he asked, trying to change the subject. He didn’t realize that talking about Franc was only slightly less painful than talking about my parents.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s him right there.” I pointed at Franc, who was making idle chat by the door with a friend of my father’s.

“The one who brought you the wine when we got here?” He sounded surprised.

“Yep.” I swirled my wine in my glass, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “That’s Franc.” Zach looked him over. His eyes hovered on Franc’s carefully tousled hair, his scuffed brown leather shoes. His neatly pressed green shirt. I wondered if felt as painfully of his own attire as I would have.

“He’s very… German.”

“What?” His words startled me. I had not been expecting such an observation.

“Just, the way he’s dressed. Very aware of what everything says about him. The shoes, the crisp shirt. The way he has his hair sticking up at the back.”

“Yes. Yes he is very German. That’s why I married him.” I said it before I could stop myself, but Zach didn’t seem surprised.

“And why it didn’t work out?” he looked at me sideways.

“Maybe,” I said defensively, feeling all of my aggression toward froth up again.

“He seemed nice though,” Zach continued, apparently sensing my irritation. “In a cold sort of way.”

I walked away, leaving Zach standing there alone, which didn’t seem to bother him.

“Katie,” Grace said, appearing again at my elbow in her faint cloud of perfume. “So nice of you to invite Franc.” I shrugged.

“He liked my parents well enough.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I don’t see Lina or Anika, or any of your friends.” I felt a speech coming on.

“I don’t really see Line or Anika anymore.” Grace stared down at me. “I just, didn’t really have anything to talk to them about anymore. We drifted, you know?”

“What about Milan or Susanne? All your old college friends. Didn’t you used to get together for drinks or cards a few times a week?”

“That was mostly when I was still with Franc,” I explained, feeling my face flush. Grace shook her head. “I lost touch with Susanne completely, actually. She moved to Berlin with an English fellow she met on the internet.” Grace took my glass from my hand and took a sip. She handed it back to me, a smudge of red lipstick on the edge.

“Good for her.” I felt a headache coming on. “So who’s the fellow you’re here with? He’s not really your type is he?” She was trying to make a joke and I appreciated the effort, but I couldn’t push a smile out.

“That’s Zach. We actually just met. I don’t really know how he ended up following me here, but. It was nice not to have to make the trip alone.” Grace smiled.

“You spend too much time alone as it is, I bet. Ever since you moved over here you got so introverted.” I nodded.

“Got tired of being ridiculed for my Americanisms,” I said, thinking about how much I used to laugh and smile. Franc’s family had not approved.

“As long as you’re happy, Katie, you can be as taciturn as you like.” She patted my arm and smiled. “I’ll leave you alone. You look like you’re developing a good relationship with that Reisling.” She stared to talk away. “I’ll come back over if I think you’re getting sloppy,” she warned.

I gulped down the rest of the wine and went to find Zach.

“I need coffee,” I explained, my hands shaking. I tried to smile.

“Do you know where here’s a little café of or something?” He sounded so tentative, I wondered if he was trying very hard to be culturally sensitive.

“Not around here.” I shook my head. “But there’s a Starbucks on the corner.”