Alina Bronsky - Broken Glass Park

No, I type. I don’t want a boyfriend. Then, thinking of Maria, I add, Or a girlfriend.

Have you ever had one? Felix writes.

What?

A boyfriend.

I got “married” at camp once, when I was 14. Just for a laugh. But I haven’t had one for the last two years.

Because of your mother?

My mother had nothing to do with it.

I would love to meet somebody like Paz. Even better would be Paz herself.

Good luck.

Who would you like to meet?

Nobody, I write. But that’s not entirely honest. But I don’t want to tell him I want to run my fingers through his father’s hair.

Maybe somebody older, I write instead. I hand the keyboard back to Felix. He lets his mouth hang open.

Have you ever. .? he types.

What?

You know.

Fucked?

He goes completely red. Even his ears flush. He types three letters: yes.

I already told you. No.

What? You’re 17 and you haven’t yet?

So what? You haven’t either.

Don’t you think it’s weird?

I’m a fundamentally weird person.

But haven’t you ever wanted to see what it’s like?

I have to laugh. With you? I add a smiley face at the end.

Felix thinks for a while. Then he types two words: Why not?

I snort with laughter. But I don’t dare look at him. I can almost physically sense his awkwardness.

I’m not Paz, I write. Even if I do have brown hair.

That’s got nothing to do with it, Felix writes. I look over at him for a second. He’s staring at the monitor.

You’re pretty, he writes.

“What?” I cry out. “Are you crazy?”

He doesn’t look at me. He winces. I don’t say anything more.

Talking is against the rules.

I think for a long time. I think about Volker Trebur. Half of Felix’s genes are from him. But you can’t see it in him.

Did your father used to have red hair too? I write.

Felix reads it over a few times, as if he can’t understand the question.

Yes, he writes finally. Why?

Let’s do it.

What??? He writes. His fingers hang in the air expectantly. I take the keyboard from him.

What you wanted to do. Just don’t grunt too much.

What do you mean? He’s flushed to the base of his neck. I’m unaffected. I’ll try my best, he types, quickly adding, Try not to grunt. Not sure if I’ll be able to.

Then we just sit there for at least five minutes, not looking at each other.

Felix speaks first.

“I think you’re scared,” he says, his fingers gripping the edge of the table.

“What about you? Are you scared?”

“No way.”

“Then take off your clothes.”

He turns slowly to me. He couldn’t get any brighter red. You could light a match on his forehead.

“You first,” he says.

“As if. It was your idea.”

He looks at me. His face is tense. Then he strips off his T-shirt and throws it on the floor.

“Your turn,” he says, wrapping his arms around himself like he’s cold. There’s a long white line running down the center of his chest. It stretches to below his breastbone. His arms can’t cover it.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing. “Is it a scar?”

“It’s nothing. It’s your turn. I’ve already taken off half my clothes.”

“It doesn’t count the same,” I say, buying time.

“Why not? I don’t know why people get so worked up about nakedness. Every woman has all the same parts as other women. Every man has all the same parts as other men.”

I take a deep breath and add my sweater to his T-shirt on the floor.

“That, too,” he says, pointing with a nod of his chin.

“Oh, that which we dare not name,” I say.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s Goethe,” I lie and throw my bra in his face. He grins as he catches it.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” I say coldly, restraining myself from wrapping my arms around myself like him.

“I guess not all women look the same after all,” he says.

I stretch out my arms, still sitting on the chair. He kneels in front of me so I can put my hands on his shoulders. His fingers carefully touch my ribs. His face is too close. I shut my eyes and manage to kiss him on the mouth. Probably because he leans in toward me.

Then I make two surprising discoveries. First, the hair the sunlight is on — that is, on the back of his head — is soft and very warm. Second, he has firm, dry lips that feel nice.

I lean back and look into his wide open eyes.

“Stop staring at me,” I say, pulling him closer between my knees.

Later, we’re lying next to each other between two comforters and at least five pillows. The bed is really just a wide mattress sitting on the floor, I think. I listen as a buzzing mosquito keeps desperately slamming itself against the windowpane.

Felix gulps. “So?” he asks, after he stops coughing.

“So what?”

“So what was it like for you?”

“Sticky,” I say. “And you?”

“Intense,” he says, relaxed. He adds with pride: “I didn’t grunt at all.”

“I noticed.”

“But I almost exploded as a result.”

“Fortunately only almost.”

“No, actually I did.”

I have to laugh.

“Did it hurt?” Felix asks.

“Is it supposed to? No, it didn’t.”

“Me either,” he says.

The mosquito stops buzzing. I savor the silence. The only problem is that Felix is taken over by a sudden spell of talkativeness. He turns onto his side and snuggles up to me.

“If it wasn’t that great for you,” he says in my ear, “it’s just because you’re inexperienced and need to practice more.”

“What?” I shout. “You’re the one who needs to practice.”

“Okay,” he says quickly, “let’s practice some more.”

“Not with me.”

“Then with who?”

“Try Paz.”

He pulls himself a few inches away from me. “You’re really mean,” he says, hurt.

“I know. And you’re really chatty. I thought men fell asleep right afterwards?”

Felix curls up. “Not me,” he says. “I don’t feel like sleeping. Not at all.”

“Then give me my clothes. They’re over there on the floor. With yours.”

“Why me? Why don’t you get them yourself?”

“Because you are the man here.”

This seems to make him brighten. “You can’t look,” he says sternly. I pull the covers over my face.

“Where is your mother anyway?” I ask from under the covers.

“Here,” Felix says. “Hey, you’re not supposed to look!”

“Yeah, but when you say ‘here’ what do you expect?” I say.

“I meant there.”

I look where he’s pointing. The TV that’s been going the whole time. A man and a woman are anchoring a news broadcast.

“What do you mean, there?” I ask.

“The woman on TV — that’s my mother.”

“No way,” I say. To say I’m surprised is an understatement.

“Why not? That’s her.”

Just then their names appear in subtitles beneath their faces. Johann Keller and Martina Trebur.

“Amazing,” I say. “What’s she doing on the tube?”

“That’s her job. You can see that. In Berlin.”

“Are your parents split up?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Why did you stay with your father?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I didn’t want to move to Berlin. And I don’t like her new boyfriend. I like it here. I have everything I need right here.” He throws me my sweater, pants, and socks one after the other. He turns off the TV.

“Should we go out somewhere together?” says Volker that evening.

“Where,” says Felix suspiciously.

“I was thinking we could go someplace for dinner. Maybe that Italian place you liked recently, Felix. No reason always to stay home. Or we could go to the movies. What do you think, Sascha?”