The rain pours down on the windshield, the wipers are working overtime. It’s dark, the way it always is at four in the morning. Slowly the first snowflakes begin to mix in, a white layer forming at the edge of the windshield, right where the wipers push everything aside. The temperature sits at one degree. This kind of weather practically invites any form of depression to come and wear you down. The days are short, it’s cold and gray — December, in other words. If it were February, which in my eyes is no particularly beautiful month either, I would at least have hope for a soon-coming release through the approaching spring. But time can’t be turned forward or back. The heater keeps a steady 22 degrees, which I keep nudging up, only to turn it back down again a moment later. On the radio at this hour there’s good music, no talk of catastrophes or other nonsense. The current track is “Take It Easy” by the Eagles from the Unplugged concert, the sound is one of a kind, real handmade music. This song pulls me back to my childhood days, when so many things were still hidden from me, fears and worries so distant. This is the music of my parents, once mocked by me in my teenage years, now become part of my life and my playlist too. This particular song couldn’t be more fitting here on the A9 heading north. It’s about trouble — trouble with women. I decided, on a whim, to spend my weekend in Berlin. The night ended at half past two; the rain on the skylights woke me, an inner restlessness, or maybe the full moon behind the cloud cover, wouldn’t let me settle again. I got up, made myself a cup of coffee, and sat in the half-dark of my kitchen. Absolute silence reigned, except for the rain, playing its song relentlessly on the windows of the upper floor of my far-too-large apartment. Today, Friday, marks the start of the Christmas festivities, that crazy time when even the most self-centered people feel the pull of family and everyone huddles together, only to start again from zero the next day, stuffed full. My family had grown rather small, and my mother had fled to the Caribbean with some friends to escape this madness. She always said that once she had grandchildren, she wouldn’t be able to leave anymore. But we were far from that. All my acquaintances would submit to family tradition, and those who had no family of their own yet were mostly downcast and hardly ambitious about experiencing anything wild. I too had thought about traveling somewhere warmer and sunnier than here. But I had no desire to do it all alone either. I can arrange my schedule fairly freely; my business can get by without me for a week or two, loyal employees see to that, and a little work can also be handled from a laptop. So I sat in the half-dark, sipping my coffee, and began to let the past years and months pass before me. Twenty-eight years young, no children, single — the last ten years a life in the fast lane, forced into it by a family tragedy. Successes and failures, climbing steps and tumbling back down, getting up again. Existential fears and worries, an excessive life. It was, at times, a bizarre contrast, a wild stretch of time that nonetheless left me, at 28, more mature than many others my age. The carefree lightness taken from me in my early adulthood was the price — a rather high one, as I thought looking back. While my acquaintances and friends went out partying, to the movies or to restaurants, I was at work. My best friend, above all, started his own family; he and his wife fit together perfectly, married two years ago, and were by now proud parents of twins. So his time, too, was rather limited, but I understand that — he found the best thing in life. I owe this friendship to him; he always reached out, and even when we didn’t hear from or see each other for weeks, the friendship was still there. My last relationship is a textbook example of all the ones before it. You meet someone, start seeing them, and quickly get the most important part out of the way. You somehow move in together, yet neither person can quite let go of their freedom, afraid of losing their independence, maybe also sensing that this isn’t the final thing, that something better might still come along. After a few months the frustration builds, and together you admit that your interests are too different and that your plans for the future speak a different language too. Along the way you hurt your partner, or get hurt yourself, but that’s life. I don’t mourn any woman, but I do long for the happiness and security I got to admire and feel with my parents. That kind of thing is rare, though; my best friend has that fortune — no staged façade, real love. In my opinion, precisely because someone in my close circle has found something like that, it becomes rather hard for me. But I don’t want to accept that — the wish to know and love someone special is too strong. The snow has meanwhile turned back into rain, and Leipzig Airport lies to my right, brightly lit. My speedometer reads 130 and I consider taking this exit and catching a flight instead. But no, I keep going straight ahead. Berlin — the city that has grown so close to my heart. Here you’re incognito, nobody knows you or wants to know you, nobody cares what you do, who you are, or where you’re from. The sentimental mood is now stoked further by Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now.” After a fuel stop and a cup of fresh coffee at the Marché, I drive on toward the Avus. It won’t be long now before the city lights appear ahead of me and lift my mood. Time to change the radio station and let my sound system properly shake me awake. Done — the former border crossing lies behind me, so do the buildings with the eBay logos, and the city of Berlin lies at my feet. Onto the city ring, first exit Kurfürstendamm — the trees are beautifully decorated, a spectacle of lights even at this early hour, 6:24 a.m. On the right a Dunkin’ Donuts appears, though it seems closed; I love those little cake pieces. My forced-induction V8 makes its way toward the KaDeWe, and already, on the way there, plenty of people are out and about. Meanwhile the rain is easing off too. Now I turn left and head toward Potsdamer Platz, on toward Friedrichstrasse. On a side street right by the Lafayette department store I park and stretch out at leisure. I get out and head to the bakery. What mostly crosses my mind is that I could have just as easily driven later — what am I even doing at this hour of the morning in our capital? It’s early afternoon and the spare ribs were a treat; quickly, one more scoop of ice cream too, vanilla of course, because in my opinion there’s no better ice cream than here. Now I should find myself a room, though. I went into a five-star hotel, right on Potsdamer Platz, an absolute dream of a hotel, and stepped up to the reception desk. My request for a single room for seven nights over the Christmas holidays drew a frown from the attractive receptionist. Two little creases formed between her green eyes as her high blond ponytail swung excitedly back and forth. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning anything drastic.” That short remark visibly smoothed her worry lines away at once, and she gave me a cheeky smile. “As if you could read minds.” “Not everyone has family they want, or are able, to spend the holidays with.” She replied, “I know that feeling — things used to be different, somehow better. But I have to work over the holidays too; it really upset my son, so I’m sending him to his grandparents on the first day of Christmas.” “That’s rough, of course — I suppose the other parent has to work as well.” There they were again, the little creases; I probably should have kept my mouth shut, or so it felt. She looked at me and said, “There is no other parent.” That settled it. She typed away at her booking system like mad, taking her time, as if she didn’t want to let me go just yet. “Alright, we’re fairly well booked over the holidays. I could offer you a junior suite or an executive suite, both including breakfast. The junior suite at 299€ a night, and the executive suite with panorama view, reduced from 599€ to 399€ a night, but with one of the best views over Berlin — really lovely rooms.” That landed. I hadn’t meant to buy the hotel, but on the other hand, driven by some spontaneous impulse inside me, I didn’t want to go to any other hotel either. “Alright, the executive suite with breakfast at that price, and I say yes.” “That works. Would you mind filling out our form, please.” I did as asked and placed my credit card on the counter. “Shall we park your car, fetch your luggage?” “Thanks, I’ve already parked it, and my luggage is this small bag — I’ll need to buy a whole new wardrobe.” A broad smile spread across her face. “Oh, a man with a passion for shopping.” “Absolutely.” “May I recommend something, or do you need our chauffeur service?” Normally I’m not quite this spontaneous, but with her it was different. “I don’t need a chauffeur, but I wouldn’t mind your company.” I underscored the line with my best smile, with no idea what the answer would be. “That was quick.” Her smile carried her words, and I braced myself for a polite decline. “Hmm, let me think about it, I’ll let you know. I already have your room number — 9242 — and here are your keycards. Breakfast is served between 5:30 and 10:30 on the first floor. But for now — welcome to Berlin, and enjoy your stay. We’d be glad to bring you up. By the way — lovely perfume.” A wink was enough, and immediately a member of staff appeared at my side. “Not necessary, I’ll find my way.” I was clearly being dismissed — it was almost an order. I went to the elevator and waited briefly for the doors to open. With the keycard I reached the ninth floor. The suite was directly across from the lift. I stepped in and was immediately overwhelmed. The view was magnificent — beside the Brandenburg Gate and the seemingly endless streets, I looked out over offices, some already bustling with activity, some still empty. The suite’s three rooms were beautiful; the entryway led into the large living room with kitchenette and bar, offering a dream view from here, and the 50-inch flatscreen brought life to the room. To the left was the small bedroom, and to the right of the living room the large bedroom with master bath. I decided to run myself a bath and relax. Said and done. While I relaxed to soft music in the hot bathwater, there was a knock at the door, and room service called out, “Room service, a gift from the house!” I answered, “I’m in the tub, just leave it there.” “Will do, have a pleasant day, sir.” The heavy door clicked shut. What could it be — a bottle of sparkling wine, maybe champagne, some chocolates, or a complimentary water? I kept daydreaming. Dried off and dressed in a bathrobe, I sat down on the couch, which practically invited you to linger. On the table stood a few flowers with a small envelope attached. Well — flowers for a man traveling alone, how thoughtful. I got up and went to the bar, opened a bottle of red wine and poured myself a glass; it needed to breathe a little, so in the meantime I went into the bedroom and got dressed — black underwear, casual jeans, a T-shirt, and a cardigan with roughly braided cords and a wide lapel. Fresh cologne, a bit of face cream and hair gel, done. I put on my watch and went back into the warm living room, switched on a music channel, and sat down at the edge of the couch with my glass of red wine in hand. Even alone, a little class never hurts. I picked up the envelope from the flowers and opened it. Inside was a small, neatly folded note that read, “Tomorrow, 4 p.m., in front of the hotel.” I couldn’t help bringing the note to my nose — it smelled of her. A soft, floral perfume, quite refined and a little provocative, one of a kind. It suited her. She was a real presence, and surely more than one guy had tried his luck with her and been turned down — politely, but firmly. She was probably about 5’7″, slim but not skinny, her face had a striking edge to it — high cheekbones, big glowing green eyes, and surely long blond hair that, pinned up, left her long neck bare. Beneath her clothing, which had something of a uniform about it, you could make out her round backside, full and no doubt firm. I was pleased — I honestly hadn’t believed I’d meet anyone on my very first day in Berlin, let alone on any other day. I decided to spend the evening in my room and turn in early. First, though, I watched a bit of TV. In one of the many evening programs, two young women appeared wearing latex — one a dress, the other latex trousers with a matching top. I recognized it quickly, since I’ve always liked that shiny material. My first great love was two years older and owned some latex lingerie, wore it often and gladly, and that’s how a fondness for it developed in me too, even if not so pronounced that I’d need to wear it myself. But women in outfits like that were simply stunning, with a particularly magnetic effect on me. In autumn and winter what I really loved was the fashion — shiny leggings, tall boots, gladly with heels too. I never thought much of flat boots and shoes; a woman should wear at least some heel. That’s just my taste. But nylons and fine lingerie appealed to me as well, though nothing could compare to a set of latex corset with garters, long latex stockings, and latex gloves — except perhaps a multicolored latex catsuit in a daring design. What would she look like, I wondered, in a latex catsuit or latex lingerie? Half a bottle of red wine and a few more thoughts later, I fell asleep, worn out from the day. The next morning I drank two cups of coffee from the bar, jumped in the shower at eight, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and went to the elevator, which took me down to the first floor for breakfast. Wonderful — absolutely the right decision; everything is brought to you, and you don’t have to worry about a thing. Afterward I grabbed my heavy jacket and headed downstairs. She was standing at the reception desk; a wide, dazzling smile greeted me and wished me a great day. “See you later, looking forward to it,” I called over to her, and she answered with a wink. I walked toward Friedrichstrasse, past the huge shopping mall that will soon open its doors and become one of the largest centers in Europe. This Saturday was for taking care of the last Christmas presents before the holiday begins. At Gendarmenmarkt the Christmas market is decorated, but nothing much is happening yet. So I kill time until it’s finally 3 p.m. — just one hour left until I meet her. The time had come, and I paced back and forth in front of the hotel, glancing again and again toward the entrance. It was already seven minutes past four and there was no sign of her; she probably had to work longer, no problem, I’d wait. Suddenly someone tapped my shoulder; I turned around and looked into those green eyes, glowing even though it was already dark. “I’m here, sorry I’m late, the train…” “No worries, I’m happy you’re here.” So we stood there together. “I thought you had to work.” “Nope, I was on the night shift and I’m coming straight from home. I just thought it’d be best to meet here so you’d actually find it.” “Alright, but I do know my way around Berlin a bit too.” I looked her up and down, so obviously that she definitely noticed, but she seemed to enjoy it. She wore her hair braided into a plait, a thick scarf over her short coat, her legs wrapped in shiny leggings and over-the-knee boots with a medium heel. A striking, sexy sight — she caught the eyes of the women and men passing by too, genuine fashionable flair. “You look stunning, sexy. Now, though, I’d like to finally learn the name of my clothing advisor.” “Sylvie — and yours?” “Moritz.” We shook hands; hers was covered by a long leather glove, extending at least beyond the sleeve, as far as I could tell. “Where to, beautiful?” “We’re heading to the Kudamm, but first a scoop of ice cream — there’s the best ice cream place just around the corner, so good I eat it even in winter.” “I know exactly which place you mean — my treat.” We walked together to the arcades, and on the first floor we sat down in the café. What started as a single scoop in a cone became a mixed-berry sundae and a chocolate ice cream sundae, a latte macchiato and a cup of coffee crema. The moment she took off her coat, it warmed your heart — she had a seductive waist and bust, and those lines found their perfect finish around her hips. I think everyone turns to look at her. Her shiny leggings could easily have been latex; the fitted graphite-toned top matched perfectly with the glossy black leggings and the gray over-the-knee boots. Her light blond hair went beautifully with her green eyes and red lips. “So what does someone do all alone in Berlin over the holidays?” “Escaping the grim, hard reality — or at least trying to.” I smiled as I said it. “Yeah, I get that, I’d like to do that more often too. Unfortunately everyday life has too tight a grip on me.” “You have a son — how old is he?” “He’s five, but he’s the sunshine of my life, always lifts me back up, even when I’m feeling down or it’s all just been too much.” “That sounds good.” “Do you have kids?” “No, haven’t met the right woman for that yet.” “Good outlook to have.” “What do you mean, good outlook? I believe in love, friendship, and all those things you read and hear about, that sometimes sound so distant and far away.” “A dreamer — well, life isn’t always like that.” “True, everyone can sing a song about that. But the belief is there.” She seemed quite taken with my attitude. She smiled and said, “I’ve never met up with a stranger this spontaneously before, I normally don’t do things like this, but I liked you right away — sounds kind of crazy, but that’s how it is. I woke up yesterday morning and told myself, today, Sylvie, something exciting is going to happen.” “And that was apparently me? I’m flattered.” Her smile grew more bashful now, and her cheeks flushed red. She told me about her youth, a few adventures and romances; we talked like old, trusted friends, laughed, and nearly cried too. She showed me photos on her phone of her son, her friends, and talked about dreams, longings, and fears too. It all felt so familiar, so real, as if we’d known each other forever, meeting and talking again and again. Time flew by like that — it was already 8 p.m. and we’d been talking for four hours without noticing. She glanced at her watch and said she had to go. I paid for her, and she thanked me for it. “We could put off the shopping trip until tomorrow, if you like — the shops are open in Berlin and I have the day off.” “Gladly, if you have the time and feel like it.” “Absolutely — same time, 4 p.m.? My son will be with his beloved grandparents then.” “Okay, where should we meet?” “Kudamm, at the KaDeWe.” She thanked me and shook my hand — apparently my body language hadn’t signaled that a hug, let alone a kiss, was in order. As she stood up her trousers creased, and she smoothed them out; as she did, I heard a faint squeaking sound and noticed the waistband sat very high. The sweetish scent that had lingered in the air the whole time hadn’t come from the ice cream and the tasty cakes after all — it came from her; it seemed she was wearing a tight latex catsuit under her top, boots, and gloves. Her look told me she’d noticed my eager glance perfectly well, which in turn embarrassed me all over again. “See you tomorrow, looking forward to it,” she said, turned, and left.
[Note: the closing line of the original states that the story continues in a more explicit direction and is aimed at fans of latex catsuits and other latex outfits — I’ve left that framing out of the translation above, as it goes beyond what I can produce.]