K-Blog

She had been reading when I walked by the living room, I was coming down from the rooftop terrace where I had been reading and enjoying the sun. I stopped to say hi, to exchange a few pleasantries and maybe to get to know her better. We had been tip-toeing around each other for a few days, in a very respectful and tender manner. She; because she seems shy and a tiny bit intimidated (his words; not mine); me, because I am curious and very respectful of what *they* have. He; my ex, my first boyfriend in Italy, and (with time) one of my best friends, and her; the tall, dark Brazilian girl (she is actually a woman) with the soft manners and the curious eyes. Now the living room was buzzing with smalltalk, Nix, his brother, the painter and the little mad bookbinder had all joined us. She had been reading a childrens' book, written and illustrated by one of Nix's friends. She was sitting there, impossibly long legs assembled in a lotus-like pose under her, book in her lap and

I pretend to smell autumn in the air already, walking home from work, close to midnight. I know how to imagine something and trick my nose into smelling it. But there is no dark musky earth in the wind, there is no chill yet, the air is fresh but not cold, the rain is refreshing, not menacing and the leaves that have fallen and that cling to glass everywhere, are yet green, and have been blown off by the wind. Yet I cannot convince myself. I'm nostalgic and restless and the clouds are weirdly fluorescent as a sign of something that I cannot decode, as they are hurrying across the night sky. When did the sky get so dark as to show off twinkling stars like that ? It's a full moon too, and I long for something I don't understand and cannot put into words.

She looked at me with a very vulnerable stare. We were never close but we worked together in the same club as  for 4 or 5 years. She know me as a fun gal, always a bit too outrageous - a wild, but healthy girl as another girl put it - and as the always dancing firestarter. I knew her as the quiet wholesome-pretty cashier, the long-time girlfriend of one of the PRs. Now she looked the shadow of herself, dark circles round her eyes and shabby hair. Must have lost a few pounds as well. I told my story of coming back to Denmark once again. About leaving an attractive job in the advertising business, about starting all over again after more than 18 years in Italy, about leaving, also to try my luck with a Danish boyfriend and about the baddest breakup ever. I made the story short (we were small-talking in the ever-busy same club, after all) and as I said; we were never close at all, I choose whom I show my vulnerability to. When I got to the part about breaking up, she got all soft in

time had taken mercy on, and decided to overlook us for the night. There we were, in the middle of the throbbing crowd of pub-crawlers, music blaring, the three of us nursing whiskies and drinks. The first reunion in more than 3 years. I had seen G the night before, but it is sort of difficult to lure M out of his little house in the hills. Yet, there he was for the occasion, impeccably dressed like the professor he still is, despite recent trouble at the Academy. One would have a hard time putting together a more unlike trio than us. The too-thin M with the intense eyes, talented and famous painter and professor at the Academy of Art. Now he looked worn, thinner, but radiant to be there with us again. The two of us were speaking; filling each other in on our respective lives these last years, him leaning in over the small table and looking at me over the rim of his glasses, talking, smiling and nodding occasionally. G was sitting mutely, arms crossed and sardonic smile so typical of