Juha and I are on a train. In one of those sleeper cars with two three-tiered bunk-beds on a few square meters of space chugging towards a given destination. He pulls me underneath the sheets with him. They are crisp white sheets with a high thread count. Designer sheets. In real life they don't give you sheets like that on trains. You have to make do with sheets, the dullest shade of blue, that have been spanked in the washer a thousand times, and a burled blanket.
His thin arms are covered in blurry tattoos, bleeding green and blue dragons and Geishas all the way down to his hands that are reaching for me. His hair is almost black on the pillow. My body is throbbing with what I think is desire. It's a new feeling; a sweet ache mixed with a sense of alarm. Somewhere on the periphery of this dream.
But we are going away. Together. Far away. We have the potential to disappear. Like Houdini. Into thin air.
Then there's a knock on the compartment door. It must be the conductor. This is bad, we both know this. Juha slides further down underneath those silky sheets. As if he'd find a rabbit hole to enter into.
But it's dad. He's always somehow been under the impression that it's legit to knock once and then fling the door open, without waiting for an OK or a:
Come on in.
You're running late, he says. And points to his wrist watch. Then he closes the door and I hear his foot steps disappearing down the hallway, towards the kitchen, from where a faint smell of coffee comes drifting.
Juha is of course gone. And what I am late for is my job at kindergarten. And that's not something I am bouncing out of bed for.
The trees are almost all bare. The sky has shifted from pale blue to steel gray. Everyone has busted out their autumn coats and heavier shoes – all in colors to match the dead leaves blowing around in the north pole wind. I believe people spin slightly out of control when they never get properly warmed by the sun. When the shortest summers just rain away in a haze of grim light filtered through jagged steel-wool clouds.
The Kindergarten
Everyone else that works there thinks I'm a freak and a potential danger to the little humans that we are suppose to care for and offer guidance to. These creatures whip up a terrible, tinnitus-inducing racket every day. In the staff room the adults sit as far away from me as possible, but when they talk to me they paste polite smiles on their plain faces. I am insulted that they think I am that stupid, that I can't see the contempt brimming over and pouring out of their eyes, peeping over strong prescription glasses – no doubt the result of reading too many books on child-rearing.
And still they favor the cute kids, while the ugly, fat, pasty ones are left fending for themselves. Feed them to the sharks, I say.
One of them is Karin. She has thick glasses with heavy unfashionable frames. And she wears shit-colored corduroy pants and puke-tinted polyester shirts. Her parents, both doctors, have outfitted her in 70's pimps clothes. But she has no idea of course. She's only four. Her face is also unfortunate, with a big birthmark smudged across her cheek. And she just doesn't have that great of a personality, you can already tell; she's sullen and body and I don't know which came first.
Then there's Susanne. She looks like she stepped out of a Pampers advertisement. She's outfitted in soft pastel colors, and has blond curls that frame her adorable face perfectly. And her eyes are blue blue blue. She always brings new toys and over-sized stuffed animals to Kindergarten even though she's not supposed to.
One day Karin comes to me crying. She says the other kids won't let her join in. I stomp over to Susanne in my combat boots to see what's up.
Why can't Karin play with you? I ask.
Susanne turns her gaze to the floor and says:
Because she's ugly.
I take Karin outside to the swings and let her swing high, and then higher.
You should also make a deal with Satan too, I mumble. She can't hear of course. The wind is dragging a beer can around on the pavement.
And when I go home there's a letter from Juha waiting for me on the kitchen counter along with some bills and mail order catalogs.
