For a while now, she’s been throwing parties without him knowing about it. Sometimes she casually mentions it, three days prior at the most, while putting on her coat and shaking a mint onto her hand. He can come if he wants, she’ll say, and then she’ll pull the door closed behind her.
He used to compare her studio flat with a box of mints, tiny and spotless, but now that he’s standing inside with fifty other people, he sees there’s nothing clean about it. A narrow hall connects the refrigerator to the few chairs and couches on the other side of the flat. A friend of hers is DJing, largely for his own enjoyment, because apart from the square metre behind his table, the bodies are squirming too closely together to be able to dance. The only window has been completely occupied by a group of smokers.
Half of these people he’s never seen before. Not that he’s surprised: for a long time he’s had the sense that the bubble floating in between them has been swelling up and slowly pushing him away. What can you do? If even continents drift apart, why would people stay together?
After a few fruitless conversations, he puts on his coat and pushes his way towards the front door: he has no reason to be here, apart from the sparse glances she casts his way from the other side of the flat. But before he can shut the door, he feels her tugging at his shoulder.
– You’re leaving already?
– Are you coming with me?
He’s surprised by his own words.
– With you?
– Why not?
– Where to?
– To get some fresh air.
She eyes him questioningly; he gently squeezes her hand. He can feel the hesitation in her fingers; they slightly curl up, without tightening their grip.
– Wait.
She turns around and calls out to a friend who’s lying in an armchair, plastered, and tosses her keys her way: ‘Will you keep an eye on the house until I come back?’
– I’m actually quite glad to be outside.
They’re walking down the street, side by side, their hands in their coat pockets.
– Why did you invite them, then? They’re so annoying.
She shoots him a look like a needle and begins to walk faster. He sighs. He’s not the type to run after someone like a dog, he thinks, and he keeps walking at his own pace.
After a few blocks, she comes to a halt. This street, with the white office buildings and wrought-iron fences – he knows it. He comes up next to her.
– What’s up?
– I’m turning back.
– Already?
– Already? What’s wrong with you? Did I abandon everyone just to walk a few metres ahead of you? I swear, there are mountains more active than you.
He gives her an irritated look. Is she being serious, or is this one of her games?
– Fine. If it’s mountains you want …
He grabs her hand, but she doesn’t give in to his tugs. Vexed, he disappears around the corner. She runs after him, into a small courtyard, where she sees him moving a wheelie bin into a corner and climbing on top of it. He briefly freezes when he realises that the netting behind the small window above the bin is new, but someone else has already cut a nearly identical hole into it.
– When I jump, I need you to kick the bin aside and push my feet up, OK?
– What are you doing? Do you even know this place?
– I’ve told you about it. Remember? The time a security guard dragged me off the grounds by my hair?
It’s a smooth jump, and aided by the push, he wriggles onto the ground floor of the car park, in between two Mercedes. After a few seconds, she sees his head poking out the window, his arms dangling down.
– Do you dare?
– What do you think?
She rolls the wheelie bin back into place and climbs on top of it. Then, she jumps and grabs hold of both of his arms, after which he pulls her through the netting and into the car park. Their clothes are grey with dirt.
– You didn’t tell me it would be so filthy!
He puts his finger to his lips and whispers:
– We should be quiet. It echoes in here.
She’s tingling: usually, she’s the one seeking adventure, and he’s scared of everything. More than anything, she would like to bite his finger. Instead, they creep along, with their backs against the wall to avoid the cameras, until they reach a door behind which a spiral staircase goes up the side of the building. It’s much more windy there.
At the top, she takes in the view. The new art repository nearby glistens due to the countless headlights and streetlamps reflected in it. She can see the Maas shivering all the way to Vlaardingen. She understands the river: up here, she’s shivering with cold.
– What do you think of this mountain?
She embraces him. The view reminds her of the time she dared him at a concert in Utrecht. They climbed onto a cross-beam in the lighting grid, just above the stage. Right in the middle, with her on top, looking out over the audience and the band.
She slides her hands under his shirt. His back tenses up at first, but then relaxes slowly in her palms. Her smell overwhelms him – sweet, sour and bitter, like blood oranges.
From that moment on, it goes quickly, the sudden warmth proving that the bubble has burst. She’s sitting on top of him, on the wall at the edge, and gently pushes him backward against his shoulder. Above him, she can see the freighters in the distance, sailing into town.
They bob like this, slowly and intently. With his fingers, he feels the ripples on her back slowly turning into waves. She pushes against him more forcefully, farther and farther over the roof’s edge. When he’s about to be flooded, he latches on to her. She stops. He gives her a shy smile. Placing her hand on his cheek, she says:
– Should we go to your place?