THE FERRIS WHEEL

THE FERRIS WHEEL

THE FERRIS WHEEL


It had taken the technician over an hour to repair the malfunctioning in the time controls of the module. And yet he could not guarantee that the problem wouldn’t recur at some point.

– Okay, said Monika.
– I cannot guarantee that the problem won’t recur at some point, repeated the technician.
His facial expression was grim. He seemed to be angry with himself. Probably it didn’t happen often that he could only half-complete a job. Monika no longer wanted him to leave. She accompanied him to the apartment door and let him out.
She looked at her watch and decided that it was not too early for a proper lunch. From one of her four shelves devoted solely to the subject of food she took a cookbook specializing in Asian dishes. She found something that looked pretty good and began to read through the recipe. Half of the ingredients listed meant nothing to her or she didn’t have them at home. Disappointed, she shut the book and put it back on the shelf.
In the kitchen it was completely silent.
Monika clapped her hands a few times. Since that didn’t make any change worth mentioning, she began to sing. Her voice was definitely similar to that of Suzanne Vega, not very, but a little bit. Softly singing, she got dressed, chose the lightest of her three autumn coats, put on her favorite scarf and pressed the stop button. On cue, an extremely gentle jolt passed through the apartment. If you didn’t know, you could easily think it was only in your head.
She left her apartment and took the elevator to the main tower. The café with the unimaginative name Wheel Bar was empty, despite the fact that it was lunchtime. No trace of Frau Schuster, thank God. Monika sat down at a table near the door to the kitchen. That way it wouldn’t take the waitress long to bring her the order.
– Hello, Frau Stilling, said the waitress. It’s nice to see you here so often.
Monika suddenly felt hot. She had forgotten to take off the scarf.
– Oh, yeah, she said, red-faced. The coffee here is really good.
– May I bring you one?
– No, I’d like to eat something. So just a small beer and…
Though she had long known the menu by heart, she opened it and studied the selection of snacks. For a quick bite, was written there.
– A grilled cheese, she decided. With ketchup.
– Sure, the waitress said with a beautiful smile.

Monika watched her as she walked away. The outfit she had to wear at work was somewhat reminiscent of a tennis uniform. Over the young woman’s small, compact behind the material stretched and produced a single crease. Monika closed her eyes for a moment and thought. Then she shook her head and opened them again. She touched the cool surface of the table, felt crumbs and greasy spots, which came from previous customers. Perhaps even from herself. When she ate lunch in the Wheel Bar, she almost always sat here. It was her regular table. My regular table, thought Monika, repeating it a few times until the words began to take on a strangely bleak meaning. After five minutes, the waitress brought her order. Monika avoided direct eye contact, but watched her walk away again. The crease was still there and winked with each step.

She ate slowly and deliberately. Sometimes she found herself gobbling down her food much too fast, and then she felt sick. The grilled cheese was perfect. At once crisp and juicy. The cheese was only just beginning to melt.

After she was done eating, she remained seated for another hour and looked out the window. From here the fog looked less dense. Perhaps that was because she had not washed the windows in her apartment for a long time. Or the weather had simply changed. One or the other. The young waitress came repeatedly and asked whether she could bring anything else, and each time Monika thought about it and flipped dutifully through the menu, only to shake her head and murmur:
– Thanks.

The waitress never shed her friendly smile. Monika sat there and watched her. The afternoon began. Eventually she decided that she had been sitting here long enough, and paid. She did not forget to give the waitress a proper tip. Then she returned to her apartment. When she took off the scarf – why had she put on a scarf in the first place, when she had not gone outside at all? – tears suddenly came to her eyes. She could not help thinking about the young waitress. How old could she be? Sixteen, seventeen.

AuthorClemens J. Setz
2018-12-19T12:55:27+00:00 December 21st, 2015|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 103-104|0 Comments