du tuts mir nie mehr weh

 It’s an afternoon in the early days of fall.

J. texted me to ask if “alles gut” with me. Since Hamas’s attack and the ongoing genocide, as two bullheaded pro-Palestinian and pro-Israeli souls, we’ve been stabbing each other again and again with anger and shame; then trying to rescue the deep, meaningful friendship between us. A friendship I gave up on saving long ago — but good old J. is the helplessly hopeful, presumptuous type.

On my way to class, I pass a broken drawer abandoned on the street. In its mirror, I catch my reflection — my broken style — and I’m surprised at how deeply Berlin has already crept under my skin.

Same evening, on stage, I randomly improvise the role of a drunk veteran delaying her return home. I end up on the surgery table, trying to stitch up an imaginary wounded tiger — one that has devoured several people before being shot and brought to us.
Me, drunk; the tiger, furious — soon I’m rolling on the floor, my hand bleeding because it has eaten half of it.

From the audience, young BSW Jan jumps on stage, wraps his real belt around my arm to stop the imaginary bleeding.
“And cut,” says the tutor.
We step out of the scene, and he whispers close to me,
“Du bist toll. Zweifel nicht!”