It’s the year 2014 but we’re back in the 90s.
We listen to Sade at full volume in the afternoons. We wear colourful, baggy clothes we get from the vintage fair on Fridays.
My boyfriend picks me up at 12:00pm like every weekend. Name’s Roy, he’s popular at school, speaks German fluently. He’s into indie rock bands and prehistoric movies; the boring ones with no sound. Today, I kiss his neck and taste raspberry.
We cycle to town and meet up with Sarah for some brunch, then head to the mall to do our shopping.
The room where they host the fair smells stale in spite of the high roof. Sweaters and pants are arranged on long rows of wooden hangers. Old Playboys and vinyls are stacked in dust-filled carton boxes.
I swear, if you’re careful, you can hear choirs of moths chewing on the fabrics. And if you pay enough attention, that noise will soon grow louder and cancel out the background music; the squeaky voice of kids asking “It cost how much?” to vendors.
I find Roy by the Hawaiian shirts section. He takes my hand and drags me towards the dressing rooms. I feel my body shiver, my whole being relishing on great expectations.
Behind the Persian curtains lie promises of unchaste thoughts at last put in place; of damp skin and furtive touches shared in narrow, well-lit spaces.
I was sorely mistaken. Roy asks me to wait for him while he tries on a basketball jersey and all I get is a peck on the forehead. I wait for an eternity, then Sarah comes and stands next to me. She’s as pretty as ever, but her cheeks look even rosier. She opens her purse and takes out her lip balm. I happen to notice it’s raspberry-scented.
Published in Issue #24