Long live the pineapple
My knee had been fine for quite some time.
Not that “It’s much better now” kind of thing where you still automatically reach for something when you stand up. And not that “I can do everything again” kind of thing either, while Yasmin watches you from the side with that look that pretty clearly says: Above all, you’re great at talking nonsense again.
No.
It really was fine again.
I could stand. I could walk. I could turn, stretch, and move however I wanted.
I could twirl again.
And maybe that was exactly why, in the weeks that followed, I sometimes looked at the people around me a little differently.
Not all the time.
I’m still me.
I don’t suddenly sit by the window in the morning with a cup of tea, philosophizing about how fleeting life is.
First of all, I prefer coffee.
Second, Yasmin would probably call a doctor.
But sometimes there were those little moments.
When I looked at Yasmin, for example.
I’d loved her before. Of course I had. Yasmin wasn’t just my girlfriend. She was Yasmin. My other half. The woman with whom sometimes a single glance was enough for me to know exactly what was going on.
All right.
Most of the time.
Sometimes I’d think she was pondering something terribly profound, and then she’d say:
“Do you think there are any more cookies?”
But ever since my knee injury, something else had been added to the mix.
Something warmer.
Maybe gratitude.
Although that word almost seemed too small to me.
Yasmin hadn’t gone out of her way to take care of me in some showy way. There hadn’t been a grand entrance. No “Look, everyone, I’m here for Lisa now.”
She’d just been there.
With chocolate cookies.
With the video call to Beatrice.
With a distraction.
With patience.
With her dry comments right when I was in danger of getting bogged down in my own frustration.
And sometimes just sitting next to me.
That was probably the best part of it all.
She’d never demanded that I be grateful for it.
That wouldn’t have been like her at all.
She’d just done it.
Because I mattered to her.
And Mario had carried me through it.
Sometimes quite literally.
He had supported me, lifted me up, sat me down, helped me stand again, helped me get dressed, made sure I didn’t do anything foolish—which had probably taken up most of his energy—and eventually gave me back that wonderful feeling of being able to move completely freely again.
I remember that at some point I’d just looked at him and thought:
He really caught me.
Not dramatically.
Not like in some movie where violins start playing beforehand.
Just like that.
And maybe that’s why I’d sought his closeness more often after that.
Not out of fear.
Not because I suddenly couldn’t be alone anymore.
I just wanted to be with him.
Mario rarely slept alone anyway. Most of the time, one of us would spend a few nights with him. He liked that. He liked having someone lying next to him when he fell asleep.
And I understood that.
Falling asleep alone is kind of lame, too.
Where are you supposed to put your arm, anyway?
That Saturday evening, I’d looked at him at some point.
“You?”
“Hm?”
I hesitated briefly.
Which, for me, probably already counts as a historic event.
“Can I sleep with you tonight?”
Mario looked at me.
Just for a moment.
Then he smiled.
“Of course.”
That was all it took.
Later, we were lying side by side in bed.
Mario murmured something to Alexa.
Shortly afterward, the ceiling turned into a night sky.
Stars appeared above us—tiny points of light—interspersed with a slowly drifting mist of blue and violet that spread across the ceiling, as if someone had decided that a normal bedroom wasn’t good enough for tonight.
Then soft music began to play.
Classical.
Strings.
Very calm.
I looked up.
Then at Mario.
“Show-off.”
“What?”
“Starry sky. Classical music.”
“Should I turn it off again?”
I turned toward him.
“If you dare, you’re in trouble.”
Mario laughed softly.
I snuggled closer to him.
My head found its place on his shoulder, as if it had always belonged there. I wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled myself a little closer.
His skin was warm.
His breathing was steady.
His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
And beneath my cheek, I could hear his heart.
That soft, muffled thudding.
I love that sound.
Maybe precisely because it’s so unspectacular.
No grand emotion.
No words.
A heart just beats.
And yet, somehow, it says: I’m here.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
My fingertips traced his side.
Very slowly.
Without really thinking, actually.
I ran my hand over his hip, his stomach, let it wander across his chest, and felt his breath beneath my fingers.
Mario barely reacted.
His heart continued to beat calmly.
I couldn’t help but smile.
My hand wandered back again.
Deeper this time.
Over his stomach.
Over his hip.
His thigh.
I slowly traced the inside of it.
His breathing remained just as calm as before.
So I let my fingertips wander further.
And I felt his arousal.
I smiled to myself.
There you go.
Apparently, he wasn’t quite as unimpressed as I’d thought.
Only his heart didn’t seem to have noticed yet.
It kept beating calmly.
Almost even calmer than before.
I lifted my head slightly and looked at Mario.
His eyes were closed.
His face was completely relaxed.
I think he was already half asleep.
Maybe even more than half.
And that’s exactly what made the moment somehow even more beautiful.
Not just the arousal.
That, too, of course.
Hello?
I’m not made of stone.
But this complete letting go.
He was lying next to me and apparently wasn’t thinking about anything at all anymore. He didn’t have to be anything. Control anything. Do anything.
He was just slowly drifting off to sleep.
With me.
My fingers continued to stroke him.
Gently.
Without haste.
I just liked feeling him.
His warmth.
His body.
And also that little realization that my touch triggered something in him, even though his mind had long since drifted off somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.
The stars moved overhead.
The music kept playing.
Eventually, my own breathing became just as slow as his.
My hand rested on his hip.
And eventually, I fell asleep, too.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, the sun was already much more energetic than either of us.
Bright streaks squeezed through the slats of the blinds and stretched across the bedroom.
I blinked.
Several times.
Mario was lying next to me.
Actually, I was half lying on top of him.
I have no idea when that happened.
Apparently, my body had decided during the night that a five-centimeter gap was completely overrated.
Mario was also slowly waking up.
Very slowly.
One eye opened a tiny slit.
Then closed again.
One more time.
“Morning,” I whispered.
“Mrrn’n’.”
I grinned.
“Wow.”
No reaction.
“So many words.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m impressed.”
He actually smiled a little, without opening his eyes all the way.
I snuggled closer to him again.
My head was resting on his chest.
This time I could hear his heartbeat even more clearly.
Slow.
Calm.
Almost as if he had no intention at all of ever seriously getting this morning started.
My hand rested on his stomach.
I let it wander again.
Not even consciously.
It was this need to simply feel him.
After all those weeks when other hands had held me, supported me, and moved me, perhaps that was exactly why I was enjoying it so much—that my own hands were completely free again.
My fingers glided over his chest.
Over his stomach.
His hip.
I felt his skin beneath my fingertips.
His warmth.
And at some point, my hand had found its way back to where it had been that night.
On his thigh.
Then on the inside.
I stroked it very slowly.
Mario took a deep breath.
Aha.
So this time, it really was happening.
I let my fingertips glide further.
It didn’t take long for him to become aroused.
And this time, his heart gave him away.
The rhythm beneath my cheek changed.
Just a little at first.
Then more noticeably.
I lifted my head.
Mario had opened his eyes by then.
Not quite.
But enough.
“Good morning,” I said.
“You already said that earlier.”
“You weren’t fully awake then.”
“I’m not now, either.”
I grinned.
“Your heart says otherwise.”
Mario laughed softly.
Then his hand wrapped around my hip.
Very gently.
His fingers traced my side.
And suddenly there was this tingling sensation.
He pulled me closer to him.
His fingertips wandered over my back, over my hip, and back up again.
When they brushed over my breasts, I closed my eyes for a moment.
Not because it came as a surprise.
But because I simply wanted to savor that feeling.
That very subtle tingling that spread from his hand all over my body.
His hand continued to glide.
Slowly.
Without haste.
And at some point, I felt his fingers between my legs.
Warmth rose within me.
Not a sudden explosion.
More like something that kept spreading further and further.
I pulled Mario closer to me.
His arousal now lay clearly between our bodies, gently throbbing as if asking for entry.
I wrapped a leg around him.
Mario put his arm around my shoulder.
And then we kissed.
Gently at first.
Almost sleepily, even.
Then longer.
More intimately.
I felt his breath on my lips, his hand on my body, his warmth everywhere we touched.
And at some point, that feeling stopped being just a series of individual touches.
We simply became one.
Our bodies found their rhythm.
Not perfectly, because one led and the other followed.
But because we were both responding to each other.
One movement answered the other.
One breath followed the next.
Closeness was met with closeness.
It was like a ballet.
Not that formal image with a stage, costumes, and people who know the names of all the steps.
But rather what actually makes a ballet beautiful to me:
Two bodies that, together, become something neither of them could be on their own.
Neither took.
Neither gave alone.
We moved with each other.
For each other.
Completely lost in each other.
Our kisses grew more intimate.
Our breathing quickened.
My hands held him tight; his held me.
Sometimes I opened my eyes for just a fraction of a second and saw his face right in front of mine.
Then I closed them again.
I didn’t want to watch.
I wanted to feel.
Him.
Us.
That completely crazy, warm feeling of having someone so close to you that, for a few minutes, it didn’t matter at all where one ended and the other began.
The dance of our bodies grew more intense.
His heart was now pounding wildly.
Mine, probably just as much.
And at some point, I felt his arousal surge through me in spasms like warm fireworks.
I just held him tight.
Really tight.
He was breathing heavily.
So was I.
One more kiss.
Then another.
And eventually, we both fell back into the pillows.
Sweaty.
Completely disheveled.
Clutched tightly together.
I was lying with my head on his chest again.
This time, his heart was pounding right by my ear.
I had to smile.
Mario ran his fingers through my hair.
For a while, neither of us said a word.
We didn’t need to.
Eventually, I lifted my head.
“You know what?”
“Hm?”
“The starry sky yesterday was pretty amazing.”
Mario looked at me.
“Is that your take on it?”
“Among other things.”
He laughed.
I kissed him one more time.
And then I just stayed there.
Happy.
Not that big, jubilant kind of happiness.
More like that very deep kind.
Warm.
The kind that fills you from the inside out.
Eventually, we actually made it to the bathroom.
Showering together.
Which, of course, was mainly for the sake of efficient water use.
Obviously.
Even if you suddenly realize in the shower that you have to shower a second time.
Afterward, we went downstairs.
Mario and I set the table, poured multivitamin juice, and set out the pretzels. A little later, white sausages were on the table with sweet mustard beside them.
A romantic night under the stars.
An erotic ballet in the morning.
A white sausage breakfast.
You’ve got to have priorities.
After breakfast, Mario headed out to do the weekly grocery shopping.
I went into the living room.
Yasmin, Amber, and Laura were already sitting on the couch.
I plopped down next to Yasmin.
She looked at me.
Then again.
Longer.
I grinned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Yasmin.”
“You look happy.”
“I’m always happy.”
“More.”
Amber was already grinning.
Laura looked back and forth between us.
Then that slow smile appeared on her face, too.
“Oh.”
I turned to her.
“What exactly does ‘oh’ mean?”
“Nothing at all.”
“You’re all terrible.”
“We haven’t said anything yet,” Yasmin remarked.
“Yeah. That’s exactly what worries me.”
She just raised an eyebrow.
Of course I told them.
Not everything.
Well…
Okay.
Actually, yes.
Quite a lot, actually.
I told them about the starry sky.
About the music.
About how Mario had almost fallen asleep.
About my morning wake-up routine.
Amber laughed.
Laura grinned.
And Yasmin sat there with that look on her face where you just know something’s coming.
“So,” she said at some point.
“What?”
“You got up with remarkable thoroughness this morning.”
I stared at her.
Amber burst out laughing.
Laura covered her mouth with her hand, laughing.
“YASMIN!”
“What?”
“You’re getting worse and worse.”
“I spend too much time with you.”
“That’s an unproven claim.”
“I have witnesses.”
“Biased.”
I playfully nudged her with my shoulder.
She nudged me back.
And then I looked at her.
Really looked.
Not just that quick glance in the middle of a conversation.
I looked at Yasmin.
And suddenly that warm feeling was back.
Chocolate chip cookies.
Beatrice on the phone.
Her hand in mine.
All those hours when she’d just been there.
My smile faded.
Yasmin noticed it right away.
Of course.
“Hey.”
“Hm?”
“Everything okay?”
I nodded at first.
Then I didn’t even know why myself.
“Yeah. I’m just…”
I searched for the right words.
“I don’t know.”
Amber moved a little closer.
Laura was silent.
I glanced briefly at the door through which Mario had disappeared a while ago.
“I was just thinking about how the night went.”
Yasmin grinned slightly.
“The detailed part or the philosophical one?”
I had to laugh despite everything.
“The philosophical one.”
“Oh. Dangerous.”
I exhaled.
“That’s actually how families are formed.”
The grin faded from Yasmin’s face.
Not abruptly.
Simply because she realized I was serious.
I looked down at my hands.
“So, kids. You know what I mean.”
Amber nodded slowly.
“And Mario loves kids.”
I thought of his sister.
About her children.
About how naturally Mario interacted with them.
How different his face sometimes looked when one of them was telling him something and he listened with complete focus, even though it was probably about which dinosaur was the coolest.
“When his sister’s here… you can really tell.”
I shrugged.
“He’d definitely be a great dad.”
No one disagreed.
“And we can’t give him that.”
Yasmin’s gaze softened.
I noticed it.
“Not me. Not you. Not Amber.”
Laura still didn’t say anything.
“And what if, someday, a woman comes along who can?”
Now I looked at all of them.
“A real woman.”
Yasmin’s brow furrowed slightly.
I could hear for myself how wrong that sounded.
“So… shit. You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” Amber said quietly.
“A woman who can give him children.”
I swallowed.
“What happens to us then?”
There was silence for a while.
Yasmin took my hand.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
No grand gesture.
Her fingers simply closed around mine.
“Lisa.”
I looked at her.
“I think you’re mixing up two things right now.”
“Which ones?”
“Kids and family.”
I didn’t say anything.
Yasmin smiled a little.
“I didn’t bring you those chocolate cookies back then because I was trying to earn some kind of bonus points.”
The corner of my mouth twitched.
“Fine. They would’ve expired by now anyway.”
“Probably.”
She squeezed my hand.
“I brought them because you’re important to me. Just like the video call with Beatrice. And all the other stuff.”
She looked at me.
“Not because I thought you’d have to thank me for it someday. I just wanted you to feel better.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
“Of course you do.”
A small grin appeared on her face.
“Besides, if Lisa-Marie actually stays put for several days of her own free will, that’s a historic event. You’ll need some food.”
I had to laugh.
“Bitch.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her hand stayed in mine.
And that was exactly the difference.
She didn’t list everything she’d done for me to show me.
She didn’t explain what I owed her.
On the contrary.
Actually, she just said:
Of course I did that.
You’re you.
Why shouldn’t I have done it?
Laura cleared her throat quietly.
“May I?”
I looked at her.
“Of course.”
She’d only been staying with us for a few days.
Maybe that was exactly why her view of us was still a little different.
It wasn’t second nature to her yet.
She saw things we didn’t even think about anymore.
“I really haven’t known you guys for very long,” she began.
Yasmin leaned back.
“You can still run away.”
Laura grinned.
“My suitcases are ready to go.”
I laughed.
Then Laura became a little more serious again.
Not stiff.
Just attentive.
“But there’s one thing I figured out pretty quickly.”
She looked at Yasmin first.
Then Amber.
Then me.
“You’ve been a family for a long time.”
I wanted to say something.
Laura raised her hand slightly.
“No, wait.”
I actually waited.
Historically speaking, too.
“What is a family, anyway?”
I shrugged.
“Well…”
“Children?”
“Not just that.”
“Blood ties?”
“Not necessarily that either.”
“A shared last name?”
Yasmin shook her head.
Laura nodded.
“Exactly.”
She leaned back a little.
“There are couples without children. There are people who can’t have children. People who don’t want any. People who adopt children. Families with two mothers. Two fathers. Grandparents who raise children. Friends who are more like family to each other than any relatives.”
She didn’t say all this like she was giving a lecture.
It was more as if she were simply sorting out aloud what was obvious anyway.
“Family isn’t just one form, after all.”
Her gaze wandered around the room.
“Ever since I’ve been here, I’ve constantly seen someone doing something for someone else.”
She pointed at Yasmin.
“She notices when something’s wrong with you faster than you do yourself.”
Yasmin smiled.
Laura pointed at Amber.
“Amber listens.”
Then at me.
“You probably manage to drive someone completely crazy while still making them feel like the world is a pretty nice place right now.”
I grinned.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was one.”
Then Laura looked toward the hallway.
“And Mario is probably out shopping right now, thinking of five things that one of you likes, even though only two of them are on the list.”
I had to laugh.
Because it was true.
He was probably standing in front of a shelf somewhere right now, thinking:
“Lisa likes these.”
And: “Yasmin likes the others.”
And: “Amber said the other day…”
“You’re there for each other,” Laura said. “You look out for each other. You give each other space. You can get on each other’s nerves without everything falling apart right away. You celebrate with each other. And when one of you is scared, you’re there.”
She pointed to our hands.
Yasmin’s fingers were still intertwined with mine.
“What else is family supposed to be?”
I looked at her as I squeezed Yasmin’s hand even tighter.
“And what if Mario really does meet a woman someday?”
Laura raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Then, in my opinion, there are two possibilities.”
“What are they?”
“She’ll understand that you belong with him.”
A brief pause.
“Or she’ll have a pretty hard time finding a place in his life at all.”
Amber smiled.
I didn’t smile right away.
Not because I didn’t think it was nice.
But because I was thinking about it.
Laura shrugged.
“I’m not saying any of this would be easy. People are rarely simple.”
Yasmin nodded.
“Finally, someone’s saying it.”
“But do you really think Mario would ever say, ‘Okay, now I have something new, so I don’t need you guys anymore’?”
No.
Of course I didn’t believe that.
Actually, I hadn’t even believed it at the moment I’d voiced that fear.
Fears are sometimes stupid.
They don’t need logic.
They just barge into the room, throw some nonsense on the table, and then expect you to deal with it.
I exhaled slowly.
And suddenly I had to look at Laura.
Laura.
Who’d only been there a few days.
Who was already talking about us as if she’d simply taken a few steps back and seen something we ourselves had overlooked up close.
And who had really only arrived a few days ago. When exactly was that, anyway?
No idea.
So, of course, I could look it up in the calendar now.
But that’s not the point.
At some point a few days ago, Laura was just standing in the hallway.
And yeah, she really was just suddenly there.
Not because she’d teleported.
Which is a shame.
I would’ve loved to see a whole stack of suitcases fly through a portal.
I was the first one to reach her.
And my first thought was:
Wow.
My second thought was:
She’s about as tall as I am.
And my third:
Wow.
Again. So: “Damn, she’s beautiful!”
Laura stood in front of me with shoulder-length brown hair, falling softly, with a bit of movement in it. Her gray-blue eyes seemed calm and curious at the same time.
And her outfit…
My goodness. I do like stylish outfits. But there are stylish outfits… and what Laura was wearing.
She was wearing long cream-colored pants made of that silky fabric that, just by looking at it, seemed to drape differently with every movement.
Paired with flat dark brown shoes.
No sneakers.
No pumps.
Something in between.
Casual and elegant at the same time.
I didn’t even know shoes could do that.
Her blouse was a slightly lighter shade of brown than the shoes and had that gathered, crumpled look that, on me, would probably have looked like: Lisa forgot to take the laundry out of the dryer.
On Laura, it looked intentional.
Of course.
Over that, she wore a cream-colored blazer that matched her pants.
The entire outfit could have come straight out of a Vogue photoshoot.
Hollywood.
An expensive hotel.
A black limousine pulls up in front, a dapper butler holds open the side door, and a woman steps out while someone somewhere yells, “Cut!”
And yet, Laura didn’t come across as arrogant for a single second.
Not aloof.
Not like someone who expects you to roll out a red carpet all the way into the living room for her.
She looked at me.
Smiled.
“Hi. I’m Laura Bellandi.”
Her voice was warm.
A little deeper.
I liked her right away.
“Hi. I’m Lisa.”
I grinned.
“Actually, Lisa-Marie. But Lisa is fine.”
A short pause.
“Or Glitter Tornado. I’ll take that, too.”
Laura laughed.
Good.
Passed.
Then my gaze fell behind her.
Suitcases.
Lots of suitcases.
I looked at Laura.
Then at the suitcases.
Then back at Laura.
“Yo. That’s a lot of suitcases, huh?”
She glanced over her shoulder.
“A woman just always wants to be dressed appropriately and stylishly.”
I turned toward the house.
“MAAAAARIO!”
Laura flinched, laughing.
“I love her already!”
I took her into the living room.
Yasmin and Amber were there.
As always, my gaze went to Yasmin first.
Automatically.
She was the other half of my soul.
Whenever something new came into my world, some part of me always wanted to know first how Yasmin saw it.
Laura looked at her.
Yasmin looked at Laura.
And they both smiled.
Just like that.
Without making a big deal out of it.
But something inside me relaxed immediately.
“This is Yasmin,” I said.
Yasmin raised her hand.
“Hi.”
“And this is Amber.”
“Hello,” Amber said with a smile.
Laura greeted them both.
I pointed to the couch.
“Have a seat for now.”
She sat down. Which, even on our already beautiful, large couch, meant she effortlessly doubled its glamour.
I sat down next to her.
Yasmin looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I knew exactly what she was thinking.
Here comes the Lisa interrogation.
She was right.
Of course.
“So.”
Laura looked at me.
“So?”
“Where are you from? How old are you? What do you do? What kind of music do you listen to? What do you like? What do you hate? Favorite food? And the really important question: How do you feel about glitter?”
Yasmin looked at Laura.
“I warned her.”
“You didn’t!”
“In my head.”
Laura laughed.
“Okay.”
She settled into her seat a little more comfortably.
“Florence. Twenty-five. Art restorer. Music is more complicated. Food, too. I don’t have anything against glitter in principle.”
I pointed at her.
“See? Perfect.”
“But that was about six questions at once.”
“I can do even more.”
“I’d believe that in a heartbeat.”
I liked her sense of humor.
It wasn’t like mine.
Not like Yasmin’s.
It was just hers.
“Art restorer,” I repeated. “So, paintings and stuff like that?”
Laura’s mouth twisted in amusement.
“Paintings and stuff like that, among other things.”
“That was terribly ignorant of me, wasn’t it?”
“A little? Oh, come on… no…”
“Okay. Explain.”
“I studied art history. Plus a few semesters of philosophy. At some point, I had to decide whether I wanted to think about things or pay the bills.”
I stared at her for a moment.
Yasmin grinned.
“Very sensible.”
Laura looked at her.
“I’m not sure.”
“Then it sounds like a good decision.”
I gestured back and forth between the two of them.
“I see.”
“What?” Yasmin asked.
“Nothing.”
Yasmin was still in school herself, even though she’d taken a break from her studies.
When I mentioned that, Laura immediately became curious.
Not overly so.
Not as if the two of them were suddenly going to organize a philosophy conference on the spot.
They just asked each other a few questions.
What Yasmin did.
Why Laura chose art history of all things.
How she’d ended up in restoration.
At some point, Laura explained something about the difference between preserving something and making something new.
I actually understood quite a bit.
Then I noticed that the conversation was getting suspiciously serious.
“Okay.”
They both looked at me.
“Work is uncool.”
Yasmin raised an eyebrow.
“I see.”
“Yeah. Music.”
Laura laughed.
“What kind of music?”
“What do you listen to?”
And then it happened.
Laura started talking.
At first, normally.
Then a little faster.
Then even faster.
Her hands moved as she spoke, but not that exaggerated, clichéd gesturing that anyone would probably have expected right away just because she was from Italy.
It was just Laura.
She obviously liked to talk.
And when she was excited, she obviously liked to talk fast.
Very fast.
And at some point, the first Italian word slipped out.
She didn’t notice.
Yasmin looked at me.
I looked back.
Laura kept talking.
Another bit of an Italian sentence.
Amber grinned.
Laura sped up even more.
“Laura?” I finally interrupted.
She paused mid-sentence.
“Sì?”
Silence.
Then her eyes widened.
“Oh.”
I started laughing.
Yasmin did too.
Laura slapped her hand against her forehead.
“Scusa.”
More laughter.
She looked at us.
“Okay. That’s not helping right now.”
“Please,” I said. “Please don’t ever stop doing that.”
“That only happens when I talk fast.”
Yasmin looked at her with complete seriousness.
“We’ll just be like the penguins from Madagascar—‘smiling and waving.’”
Laura stared at her.
So did I.
Then Laura burst out laughing.
“You’re mean.”
“Sometimes.”
And so it went on.
We talked about music.
About Florence.
About clothes.
About movies.
About things we absolutely wanted to do at least once.
About completely trivial nonsense.
Every now and then, we’d come back to work.
Then to some TV show.
Then to food.
Then back to music.
Just normal girl talk.
At least for us.
And at some point, I stopped thinking about the fact that Laura had just arrived.
Maybe that’s exactly why I don’t care about the exact day anymore.
It didn’t feel like:
“There’s someone new here now.”
She was just sitting there.
With us.
Laura’s been here for a few days now.
And in the meantime, I’ve noticed something.
This woman has an apparently completely unfair ability to look as if someone had adjusted the lighting just for her, even when she’s just gotten out of bed.
Seriously!
One morning I walked into the living room.
Laura was sitting in the beanbag chair.
In her pajamas.
A coffee cup in both hands.
Her hair was still a little tousled.
I mean, really just a little.
For me, “tousled” in the morning sometimes looks like I’d had a personal run-in with a vacuum cleaner overnight.
Laura looked like she was filming a commercial.
Coffee.
Not just any coffee, of course.
Some outrageously expensive one.
Something where the beans are probably handpicked one by one by singing monks under a full moon.
She looked up.
“Hey, Lisa. So? Did you sleep well?”
I stopped in my tracks.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“You’re sitting there.”
Laura glanced down at herself briefly.
“Correct.”
“In your pajamas.”
“Also correct.”
“And you look like you’re about to explain in a commercial that real coffee has to cost at least forty euros a cup.”
She laughed.
“I assume that’s a compliment?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Coffee?”
“Absolutely.”
She smiled.
And somehow I thought it was nice that this scene had simply become part of our mornings.
Laura in the beanbag.
Coffee.
Me somewhere nearby.
No big deal.
Another time, we were sitting together on the couch.
Laura was wearing denim hot pants.
With lace ankle socks.
A white blouse.
The blouse was unbuttoned wide enough that the purple lace bra underneath was clearly visible.
And damn.
She looked incredible.
Not cheap.
Not trying too hard to be sexy.
Just stylish.
As if someone had taken “eroticism,” taught her good taste, and then said:
There. Now go play.
I checked her out.
Laura noticed at some point.
“What?”
“Are you planning on picking up any guys today?”
She looked at me, completely confused.
“For heaven’s sake. No. Why?”
“You look so damn hot.”
Laura looked down at herself.
“Um… nope. Couch-and-chill clothes.”
I put a hand over my heart.
“Marry me. PLEASE.”
She started laughing.
Mario’s voice came from the other corner of the room.
“Sounds almost like I’m out of the picture.”
To this day, I don’t know how we pulled it off.
No prior arrangement.
No glances.
Nothing.
Yasmin, Amber, Laura, and I shouted at the same time:
“NO! NO WAY!”
Silence.
Then we all burst out laughing.
I turned to Mario and looked at him.
Affectionately.
Very affectionately.
Maybe a little too affectionately.
He grinned.
“Well, then.”
Laura wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye.
Yasmin leaned back.
“Good to have that cleared up.”
“Absolutely,” said Amber.
And somehow I thought back to that conversation about family.
Not consciously.
It was just this feeling.
Four women shouting “No” at the same time.
Mario grins.
Everyone laughs.
Maybe family didn’t always have to seem profound.
Maybe sometimes it just looked like that.
And at some point, Laura came up with the completely crazy idea to cook for us.
I mean, the fact that she wanted to cook wasn’t crazy.
Telling us about it beforehand was.
“I’m cooking tonight,” she said.
I looked at her.
“Oh yeah!”
A short pause.
Then my face lit up.
“Hawaiian pizza!”
Laura froze.
Seriously.
She looked at me.
Then slowly up toward the ceiling.
“Dio mio… aiutami.”
Yasmin was sitting next to me.
Completely calm.
“Maybe some corn on top, too.”
I turned to her immediately.
“Oh yeah! I really love corn, too.”
Laura looked at Yasmin now.
Then at me.
I went one step further.
“But on my side, please, extra pineapple.”
Laura stared at both of us.
I couldn’t laugh.
No way.
Yasmin was already turning her head away.
The corners of her mouth gave her away.
“You guys are messing with me,” Laura said.
“Nope.”
My voice was already way too high-pitched.
Yasmin managed to hold it in for about two more seconds.
Then came that tiny snort.
And that was it.
I burst out laughing.
So did Yasmin.
Laura looked at us in disbelief.
Then she started laughing, too.
“Voi maledette zecche!”
I held my stomach.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not telling.”
“It was probably sweet.”
“Absolutely.”
Of course, there was no Hawaiian pizza.
Laura made girasoli with tomato pesto sauce. Served with spinach and topped with pine nuts and Parmesan.
And from the very first bite, I knew: damn—this woman can cook.
I took another bite.
“Okay.”
Laura looked at me.
“What?”
“You’re seriously giving Mario a run for his money.”
Yasmin was sitting across from me.
Mouth full.
She lifted her fork.
“Mmm.”
Amber grinned.
Yasmin chewed.
Swallowed.
“Oh yeah. Damn, that’s delicious.”
Laura looked pleased.
Not smug.
Just happy that we were enjoying it.
Yasmin took another bite.
Then she asked:
“You guys don’t actually shoot people for ordering Hawaiian pizza, do you?”
I almost choked.
Laura looked at Yasmin.
Completely serious.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Don’t worry. We don’t shoot anyone for that.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“You’re simply expelled from the country.”
Yasmin’s fork froze in midair.
I pressed my lips together.
Laura remained dead serious.
“And, of course, you’ll never have a chance to cross the border again for the rest of your life.”
Yasmin stood there with her mouth hanging open, completely uninhibited and undamely.
“Oh, come on. Not shot.”
A second of silence.
Then Laura burst out laughing.
I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Neither could Amber.
Yasmin threw her head back and laughed.
I raised my wine glass.
“Long live the pineapple!”
Laura reached for hers, too.
“All right.”
We clinked our glasses.
“Here’s to the pineapple.”
Yasmin raised her glass.
“And to the corn.”
Laura raised hers a little higher.
“Definitely to the corn, too!”
I pointed at her excitedly.
“See!”
Laura grinned.
“But for me, I’d rather have it as popcorn while watching a thrilling movie.”
“Accepted,” said Yasmin.
“I can live with that.”
We clinked glasses again.
And maybe that’s exactly what’s so strange right now.
Laura’s only been here a few days.
I know that.
Of course.
But sometimes I really have to remind myself of it.
Today she’s sitting in the living room drinking coffee.
Or she’s discussing some movie with Yasmin.
Or Amber is telling her something.
Or Laura is standing in the kitchen cursing half in Italian because we mentioned Hawaiian pizza.
And none of it feels new.
It’s just there.
Maybe that’s why Laura saw so clearly on the couch what I myself couldn’t see at that moment.
Family isn’t a blueprint.
It’s not a checkmark next to “children present.”
It’s not a specific number of people.
It’s not a prescribed form.
Maybe family is simply the place where no one keeps score.
Yasmin doesn’t bring chocolate chip cookies so that I’ll owe her something later.
Mario doesn’t carry me because he expects thanks.
Amber doesn’t listen so that it’ll be her turn someday.
And Laura doesn’t cook so that we’ll tell her how great she is.
You just do it.
Because the other person matters.
And sometimes you’re the one who gets something.
Sometimes you’re the one who gives.
Most of the time, you don’t even notice when one turns into the other.
Maybe it’s even a little like that ballet with Mario.
Just different.
Not everyone dances for themselves.
Not everyone asks what they’ll get in return.
We move together.
We respond to each other.
We catch each other.
We let ourselves be caught.
We give each other space.
We draw closer.
And somehow, something emerges from this that no one could create alone.
Tonight I’m lying in bed with Mario again.
He’s already asleep.
The starry sky has faded.
The music has already faded away.
Just the faint light from outside, filtering through the blinds.
My head rests on his chest.
Naturally.
Where else?
His heart beats calmly beneath my ear.
I just listen.
For a while, I think of nothing at all.
Then I think of Yasmin.
Of her hand in mine.
Of the cookies.
Amber.
Laura in the beanbag with her coffee mug.
Her Vogue outfit in the hallway.
Our four voices all at once:
NO!
Delicious pasta.
Corn.
Pineapple.
I can’t help but smile.
Laura was right.
I wrap my arm a little tighter around Mario.
He barely moves.
He just keeps sleeping.
Maybe I would have said before that our family consisted of Mario, Yasmin, Amber, and me.
And that would have been true, too.
Nothing was missing.
Nothing at all.
Laura hadn’t filled any gap.
That’s important to me.
She hadn’t wedged herself between us.
She hadn’t taken anyone’s place.
The picture was already complete before.
Now it’s just gotten bigger.
I smile a little wider.
Somewhere in the house, an Italian art restorer is probably sleeping—the kind who, in her pajamas in the morning, looks like a sinfully expensive coffee commercial and who, while she wouldn’t shoot people over pineapple, would at least banish them from her home country.
Family can be pretty crazy.
Thank God.
I snuggle a little closer to Mario.
His heart keeps beating.
Calmly.
Familiar.
And just before I fall asleep, one last thought flashes through my mind.
Long live the pineapple.