Last Night in Munich
I waltzed, as one ought to, on New Year’s Eve, München. My guy’s law school buddies were throwing a party, to Strauss, of course, Danube, and Emperor and Roses. I danced in mulberry, my platform shoes, mini dress. It was the Seventies. Earth tones were over.
First Erhardt waltzed with me, as one is supposed to, although as a rule he preferred to ignore me. Then Hannes, the blind guy who played killer chess with an uncanny spatial sense, something I thought about as he embraced me a little too close.
My boyfriend drove taxi on holidays, weekends, and this was a big night for all the big drinkers, but he had been gone nights for most of my visit, then slept through the daytime, and I hadn’t sat in a plane sixteen hours to still sleep alone.
At dawn he returned, woke me up for my flight home. Weird night, he said. Picked up this guy at the opera house right after Beethoven’s Ninth let out. You know. Had me drive him an hour out into the country, to this totally dark village crossroads. Then back into town. “Midnight yet?” Told him no. “Go again,” says he. Four hours with him in a taxi on New Year’s, ‘til midnight and after and those were the only words out of his mouth.
And those were the only words out of his mouth.