The laminated pages stick to my fingers. “Kaffee mit Bailey’s, bitte.”
My tongue trips over words that no longer fit in my mouth.
Twenty years ago, in the back corner of the same Eiscafé, I ordered in confident German. The alcohol was harsher than I expected, its taste overpowering.
Today, I’m sitting by the window. I stare through the glass at the restaurants, the bakery, the Tchibo Coffee chain, and the apothecary that line the cobblestoned street. A street that was flooded last summer when relentless rains burst the Ruhr over its banks. Water stains mark the white-painted buildings.
A man walks out of the apothecary, holding a boy’s hand. He looks down at his son, says something and grins unevenly. The boy releases his hand, lowers his head, and slows his pace. The father takes out his phone, striding ahead.
I imagine his combed bangs glued up straight with gel, and his suit replaced with a striped gray hoodie and tight jeans. We’re in the back of the classroom and he’s laughing, having said something sarcastic in a mock American accent. He watches my expression.
My drink arrives. Whipped cream froths over the brim. I take a sip, just tasting sugar.
I imagine running after them. I imagine what I would say, putting the German words back in order. “I’m Robert, the exchange student who lived here twenty years ago. Are you Marcus?”
I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth and try to taste the Bailey’s.
Ich bin der Robert…
Ich bin der Robert…
