John Borland

It’s 4 am and the sky is lightening, a little too soon for my tastes. We’ve just come home from an evening with Kenji and Till in their Kreuzberg neighborhood. Wine at their apartment and then dinner at an Italian cafe, where near midnight a tranny magician wandered in, and spotting us alone in a corner, sat down next to us, gave Kenji a cigarette, and began pulling tricks from a zippered little bag: a coin trick,disappearing in her palm, a rope trick, a set of balls and cups. A piece of paper that levitated ever so slightly, while she groaned in simulated effort. It was hard for us too.

But she talked and smiled nonstop, and that was the magic that won us over completely. No strings attached. I could understand only the barest gist; the differences between Italy and Germany, and the similarities between Japan and Germany. She passed around pictures of she and her boyfriend, and we briefly debated afterwards: tranny or real woman? She had breasts, after all, and rich dyed reddish hair framing her fleshy face. But there was no real question.

Afterwards drinks at a bar where the floor was covered in sand, and even the negronis came with pineapple floating with the ice. Now the birds are singing confusedly, and we glare at them on our way home even though the clouds are slowly lightening in the sky. Give us time, O give us time.