Rüdiger

Pearls of sweat congregate on my flimsily covered alabaster skin as I toss and turn under the unkempt bedsheets. I feel a hot flush as soon as I touch them. I close my eyes. Breathing heavily, I slowly glide my hands further and further down the sheets. Desire is a strong driving force. With every centimetre that I feel my way along, I get closer to a liberating sense of relief. I let out a loud groan as soon as I notice that the damned fan is broken. Mattress aquaplaning was the order of the day. I slip out of the bed. It’s so hot that the soles of my feet are bathed in sweat. I make a run for it and proceed to glide throughout the entire apartment. This is how Jesus must have felt when he walked on water. I creep into a dark corner to escape the heat. An unpleasant smell progressively penetrates my nostrils. My arms glide upwards. I give the evil eye to Rüdiger, my left armpit sweat gland. With a flurry of innocent gurgling, he explains to me that sweating is a natural bodily function designed to regulate body temperature. The stench is his cry for love. Stuck with a gland that has an attention deficit disorder, I stew in my own juice. It can only be a matter of moments before David Hasselhoff squeezes into his red boxer shorts, his chest hair bobs to the beat of his steps and tucks Pamela Anderson under his arm. A bleached plastic buoy as a lifeline for a sweat-drenched soul. Until then, I keep my head above water, clinging to my seahorse swimming badge. A veritable aquatic corpse, my bloated body adorns the living room floor. The gases emanating from the decaying corpse and yesterday’s dinner give me enough impetus to be washed up like driftwood in the shower. Even though it has been years since I abandoned my faith, the cool wetness feels like a blessing. Completely soaked, cranky and with skin as dry as my sense of humor, I wait until Rüdiger reappears and we swim together into the sunset.