Gerband Bakker: The Twin

It’s faster than I expected. It’s not so much the sun that sinks below the horizon, it’s more the water of the sea swallowing the orange ball. Warm air blows across my neck. It’s a while before I realize that it can’t be the wind: wind doesn’t blow in regular, short blasts. Very slowly I turn around. Less than eight inches away, at face height, is the dark head of a lop-eared sheep. She looks at me impassively with her yellow eyes, in which the pupils are not round but almost square. Now her breath is blowing in my face, smelling like herbs. This sheep is no sorry creature. This is a noble beast. When I can’t bear the gaze of her yellow eyes any longer, I look forward again. The sheep stays where she is. I imagine that she, like me, is looking at the sky over the sea, which is blue, orange and yellow — almost purple in places. My breathing adjusts to the warm air blowing over my neck in gentle blasts.

I know I have to get up. I know that the maze of paths and unpaved roads in the shade of the pines, birches and maples will already be dark. But I stay sitting calmly. I am alone.