The Better Human @SeriusAD - Twitter Profile

Pinned Tweet

about 1 year ago

He had put the knife aside, not because he was finished, but because he knew that eating at this table no longer served any function, except as a ceremony, meant to cover up that no one was getting full anymore. This, as so often, reminded him of the hotel in Trieste. Early summer, two decades ago. A place that pretended to have five stars, but upon closer inspection, didn’t even possess a functioning ice machine. The lobby was paneled in dark wood, the armchairs too low, the guests too quiet. And yet: a breakfast buffet, so meticulously arranged, that he understood— it wasn’t about nourishment. It was about pretense. Back then, he had taken a slice of salmon, a piece of cheese, and the last fig bread toast. An older gentleman next to him glanced at the empty toast platter and said dryly: “I assume you realize that was the last one?” Von Brücke had looked at him and replied: “And I assume you would have taken it too, had you seen it first?” The man fell silent. But in that silence, everything was revealed: the myth of sharing, of togetherness, was only valid as long as there was enough to go around. And that, he thought now, back at this table, back with these people, was the real issue: Not: Who owns what? But: What remains when there’s nothing left? He observed the younger woman. She now sat with her legs crossed. The way she held her glass reminded him of balancing games in hotel lobbies— when everything trembled, but nothing spilled. “You want something,” he thought. “Something bigger than just a share. You want relevance.” The older woman, on the other hand— she ran her index finger along the stem of her glass. Not nervously. Routinely. “She’s defending the architecture,” he thought. “Not out of love. Out of the conviction that change is always an aesthetic error.” Then, aloud: “You’re all acting as if this is about ownership. I think it’s about meaning.” No response. Only a barely audible intake of breath. A fork dropped, but immediately picked up. An echo no one mentioned. At first, it was just a sound. Not the kind of water, like one hears in spas or waterfalls. But something finer. More intimate. A movement in gravity. A carafe tilting. A stream falling. Not splashing, not gurgling. But precise. Like an impact. Without detonation. It sounded like a protocol error. As if someone in an orchestra had played the wrong note during a pause— and now everyone looked embarrassedly at their sheet music, even though they had long since memorized what came next. Marja—or let’s say: the older woman—didn’t react immediately. Her presence was always monumental, not through physicality, but through posture. Only her right shoulder twitched slightly when the carafe hit. A reflex, like in animals when the wind changes direction. But her eyes— they didn’t move. Von Brücke, who had retreated into the role of the civilized observer, laid down his cutlery. Silently. Two long fingers rested on the edge of the table, completely flat. He was one of those men whose power expressed itself through absence. His smile was a threat, his silence a thesis. “How clever,” he said. “No attack. But a marking. As if someone wanted to say: Here ends the preliminary talk.” Lotta—the younger woman—had also left her role. She had returned to an in-between position. No longer the perpetrator, no longer entirely a child. The fabric of her blouse was damp, the sleeves rolled up, a trace of strawberry jam on her wrist. The woman in the dark dress— a minor character with third-rate authority— looked toward the door. Her intention wasn’t to leave, but to check. Perhaps she expected the entry of an authority. A termination. Or even a signal from outside. But there was nothing. The twins, whose synchronicity had repeatedly stabilized the scene, now broke it: One pulled her plate closer, as if hunger had suddenly become an argument. The other pushed hers away— not out of rejection, but out of a sense of uncertainty that could only be expressed in such a gesture. Then came movement. Marja stood up. Not frantically. But decisively. The chair she had been sitting on hit the wall. Not a loud bang— more of a distinct “Enough is enough.” She reached for the vase. With both hands. With a certainty that only people possess who don’t need to hope for proof. The vase shattered on the floor. Not out of revenge. Not out of loss. But as a demonstration. The flowers—hollyhocks, three of them still in bloom— now lay in the water. Shards beneath them. The center of the table was no longer decorated. It was broken open. “If you want to extinguish something,” Marja said, “first understand what’s burning.” Lotta looked up. Her lips didn’t tremble. Her gaze was clear. “I’m not extinguishing to forget. I’m extinguishing because no one ever makes space.” Marja stepped over the shards. One could hear the faint crunch under her shoes. Two steps, no more. “I’ve always made space,” she said. “But no one wanted it.” Silence. Then: “So I filled it.” A sentence like a lock. One that locks itself if you don’t understand it quickly enough. Von Brücke leaned back. “We’ve fallen out of order,” he said. “Excellent. Now it can begin.” The fountain stood as always, a few stones loose, the wall covered in moss. The water inside was clear, but motionless. As if it had decided to flow again only when someone came with honest intent. Lotta sat on the edge. Not dramatically. No collapse. Just there. Her hands on her knees, her gaze downward. The air was cool. Not cold, but a bit too fresh for early evening. Leo came quietly. Didn’t sit down right away. Stood there. Looked at the water, then at her. She turned her head slightly. That was enough. “You were right,” he said. “About what?” “About the space. The one no one makes.” “I didn’t want space. I wanted to be seen.” “I saw you.” “Not enough.” She said it quietly, but without reproach. Just as a statement one eventually has to make to breathe again. Leo sat down. The stone was cold. He pulled his knees up, like her. No pose, just practical. “There was too much in that room,” he said. “Yes. And too little air.” “Marja thinks she protects us when she’s silent.” “She’s protecting herself.” A long pause. Just the clicking of a branch somewhere. “Do you remember the first time she made apple pie?” he asked suddenly. “With salt instead of sugar?” She laughed. Not loudly. But genuinely. “And we still said it tasted good.” “That was the moment I knew we were a family.” “Maybe we need to say it again. Even if it’s not true.” “Or we say that it doesn’t taste good right now. And wait until it gets better.” She nodded. The evening smelled of damp earth. Somewhere, a bird called. Perhaps the same one as always. Inside, Marja was still at the table. Von Brücke had left. He hadn’t said anything more. No judgment. No advice. Just a nod. Perhaps respect. The vase had been cleared away. But a wet circle was still visible. And a few flower remnants on the windowsill. Jenna came in. Got a glass of water. Drank it in small sips. “They’re outside,” she said. “I know.” “Do you want them to come in?” Marja shook her head. “Do you want them to stay away?” Again, a no. “Then you go.” Marja looked at her. Then stood up. Outside, no one turned around when she came. She simply sat down with them. For a few minutes, no one said anything. Then she reached into her pocket. Pulled out an apple. Handed it to Leo. He took a bite. Passed it to Lotta. She ate. And placed the rest on the fountain’s edge. That’s how it stayed. Not healed. Not explained. But together. His smile had teeth. No one sat properly anymore. The chairs askew. The plates in states of half and whole. Cutlery slanted, turned, crossed. The room was no longer a stage. It was a crime scene. Lotta had her hands in her lap. Not resigned. More like someone about to open something that had long been sealed. Marja was still standing. One foot slightly turned inward, her back rigid. “Say it,” Lotta said. “What?” “That you don’t need me.” Marja was silent. Then she said: “I need order.” “And me?” “You disrupt it.” A sentence like an electric shock. Brief. But deep. A spoon fell. No one picked it up. The twins stood up. Not at the same time. But one after the other. “She doesn’t mean it like that,” one said. “Yes, she does,” said the other. “She means it exactly like that.” Lotta stood up. Slowly. Her chair scraped. Not loudly. But menacingly. “Then keep your order safe,” she said. And left the room. Not loudly. Not theatrically. But with an empty plate in her hand. --- This translation preserves the tone, style, and nuances of the original text as closely as possible while rendering it fully in English. Let me know if you need any further adjustments or additional context!

0

3

1

2

7K

SeriusAD retweeted

The Better Human

@SeriusAD

Who to follow

Last Seen Users on Sotwe

Trends for you

Most Popular Users