‘Not at all!’ I protest. ‘Your hair’s changed,’ I say in mock puzzlement.

A mysterious smile appears. It brings to mind the person who wished me a premature Merry Christmas.

‘Henna.’ She’s amused. Her primary source of amusement is herself. ‘I like henna.’

I’m duly agog.

‘I got henna last week from Wedding,’ she explains. A chain of speculations is set off by her pronunciation. ‘Vey-ding.’ I connect this in a few seconds to a name on road signs. At first I read it without thinking, as you do words that are familiar. Then I admitted it must be a place – a location for celebrations.

‘What is Wedding?’ I ask, wishing to resolve the matter.

‘It has interesting shops,’ she says, returning from the kitchen. ‘You must go there. I buy henna there. Indian spices.’

•

Hermit-like, she vanishes. She’s already put on eighties glam rock. She insists I listen – ‘It’s a shame you never paid attention to this: it’s very plangent.’ Of all decades, I’m happiest to dispense with the eighties. Birgit recoils; that was when she came out of dormancy. She’s intent on educating me: ‘But the eighties were extraordinary!’ She’s hurt; I give in. I get up, explore the room. I tap out notes on the piano. I can’t play, but its keys ring true. I go to the desk, press down on it. There are apartments opposite. Rather than being an observer, I tend to enter the lives of things I see. I’m now in that building. Mimicking myself, I look back from there to this window. I become a detail. When I move my gaze, I notice a man and a woman in a flat diagonally across. They’re cooking. The man bends to kiss her on the neck. Their universe is self-sufficient. They can’t conceive of being watched; they think everyone is as deep in their world as they are. The woman tilts her head. Might they make love? I look away.

•

I’m at the entrance of Birgit’s bedroom. It’s next to the window, lit with a faint pink light. Against a wall is a mirror with a bone-white frame. I imagine her looking into it. When you notice mirrors in other people’s homes, you don’t stare into them without seeing them. You encounter them as objects, as part of a fabric.

Birgit is standing beside me.

‘I love that mirror,’ she says. I follow her in.

I shiver.

‘It’s cold in here.’

‘I like my bedroom cold. I can’t sleep when it’s warm.’

•

‘Do you play?’

I indicate the piano. Her glance is disavowing.

‘I sing.’

It’s as if she’s admitting to royal blood. She smiles evasively to counter her words.

‘You do?’

‘Oh, not well! But I make songs.’

‘Sing one! What kind of songs?’ The heavy metal anthem is sobbing on low volume.

She gets up and takes possession of the stool. I rise.

Die Welt ist voller Liebe

sie ist voller Liebe

Keine Zeit zu trauern