Lydia stood dreamily in the kitchen and decorated the cake tray, while it was raining outside. The rain dripped from the gutter, to the right of the kitchen window, about the climbing roses, which bloomed late—- down into the bin.
Lydia, dreamy or withdrawn, Who knows that, decorated the cake tray as if with cool raindrops, diligent, incessantly —- Mists roamed cold-fingered around the house and penetrated through the walls into our summerless ones, ground floor rooms, they were all spread out in a plastic hallway, a bit like withdrawn siblings.
It was autumn, and the rain pelted down on the roof and hit the tiles like a chorus of a hundred thousand coffee spoons, who danced —! The water rolled down the gutter, past the climbing roses, who were still crisscrossing each other, into the wall tanned by the persistent summer glow.
They loved it then, maybe, who knows, as if by chance, to stay standing, on the top landing down into the garden, and whisper a few words to each other, On this path left and right around the house and through the kitchen window.
Lydia, at dusk, this blue silk fine and secret, stood behind the kitchen window and busied herself dreamily in her somewhat spartan kitchen. Covered the cake tray with ripe, halved plums. And also a chilly blossom, then dripped from her pert, constantly slightly reddened little nose, into the cake.
Then the cake suddenly rose into white foam, sprouted summer green, a tree, tall and loaded with dark cherries. And Lydia, a girl throughout her life, a nymph of the spring, hoisted himself up, over a high, demanding leaders, somewhat brittle and delicate; Lydia, the filigree ones, stole a cherry, indestructible; one and only, jewelry theft ever committed in her life.
She then put the cake in the preheated oven, turned the heat regulator to two hundred degrees with one hand like a Sunday sailor, and then took the egg-yolk-colored plastic cup out of the refrigerator. He was at least two generations old, marked by the marks of the whisk, the gentle one, but somehow the unframed painting was also unproductive, Thin cream whipped into cream, the skimmed one, half an hour or more, She did that for a long time, for Hannes, a man crackling in signal colors.
So he came home and went into the kitchen and kissed Lydia on the cool nose, as he asked with rain-soaked eyes: What's there to eat?? Cake. She said. You haven't eaten yet? Pondered. Then called the children, in a slightly impatient voice, she shouted from her withdrawn voice, Rooms that still look like they have been freshly wallpapered, distributed over the long ground-level corridor.
children! Essen! Called her. And toned down to him: Not yet! He had already dipped his beautiful brown earth finger into the cream, this little outlier, reduced to a darting finger, he had to afford it.
Then it was evening, and darkness surrounded the house like a sleeping bag cap, by, four chairs– transplanted to four chairs, at a round table, floated a bit, like in a soundproof nut through space and time.
Ate in moderation and stayed silent during the meal, often first, then more and more often. Until they were silent throughout and listened to the rain, which slowly became weaker, then he stopped completely.
It's quiet. As if no one had been home for a long time. And now I scurry outside and tip the barrel overflowing with rainwater, I tip it into the embankment with all my might. The wine-red flowers, they float and float on top like ships, aimless, too light for one direction. Untouched, Samtene, Unharmed, Hypothermic!
Climb your next house!
(2016/23)