Number 3
.01
The streets of Berlin weren’t much warmer than the streets of London, but it was nice knowing I had nowhere to be and no one to please. For days, I had just wandered the streets of this new city an explored, only returning back to my hotel at six to find something to eat off the hotel’s menu.
It was on my fourth day in Berlin that I met Suki. She was photographing the sun at different angles for some science journal that she had no interest in. (“It pays the bills,” she had once told me. “Gives me piece of mind to do what I really want.”)
I had wandered the same square a few days before, but had somehow managed to get turned around. Walking down a side street in the hopes I’d see something familiar, I instead walked into someone that was unfamiliar.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized as I helped her pick up her belongings. She had been laden with bags that I would later find to be filled with all sorts of cameras and shades and a plethora of other photography supplies.
“It’s alright,” she waved my apology off. “Although, it looks to me that I’ve ruined your shirt.”
I looked down at my sweater, finding it to be coated in whatever she had been drinking.
“I can buy a new one,” I said. “I’m more concerned about whatever seems to be in these bags. They must be important if you keep them all so packaged up.”
“They are,” she nodded. “But come on. My studio’s just around the corner, I can help you try to clean up your shirt.”
I had no choice but to follow her, as I was still carrying some of her bags.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said catching up to her.
“I didn’t get yours either,” she smirked. “But I’m Suki.”
“Jon,” I said extending my hand.
She took it with a small smile. “Welcome to Berlin.”
“Are you a native?” I asked. She didn’t have an accent, well, other than her American one.
“No,” she shook her head. “I ended up here a few months ago. What about you? You’re British, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I opened the door to the building she had stopped in front of. “What do you mean when you say you ‘ended up here?’”
She shrugged. “I travel wherever I feel like it. I can get work pretty much anywhere.”
“What is it that you do?” I asked stepping into a door she had opened this time.
I stopped in awe. The room was filled with strings of twine, hung into lines across the room, with photos hanging off of clothing line clips. There were polaroids and small pictures and big pictures. Each one was slightly different.
“I,” she smiled. “Take pictures.”
It was on my fourth day in Berlin that I met Suki. She was photographing the sun at different angles for some science journal that she had no interest in. (“It pays the bills,” she had once told me. “Gives me piece of mind to do what I really want.”)
I had wandered the same square a few days before, but had somehow managed to get turned around. Walking down a side street in the hopes I’d see something familiar, I instead walked into someone that was unfamiliar.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized as I helped her pick up her belongings. She had been laden with bags that I would later find to be filled with all sorts of cameras and shades and a plethora of other photography supplies.
“It’s alright,” she waved my apology off. “Although, it looks to me that I’ve ruined your shirt.”
I looked down at my sweater, finding it to be coated in whatever she had been drinking.
“I can buy a new one,” I said. “I’m more concerned about whatever seems to be in these bags. They must be important if you keep them all so packaged up.”
“They are,” she nodded. “But come on. My studio’s just around the corner, I can help you try to clean up your shirt.”
I had no choice but to follow her, as I was still carrying some of her bags.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said catching up to her.
“I didn’t get yours either,” she smirked. “But I’m Suki.”
“Jon,” I said extending my hand.
She took it with a small smile. “Welcome to Berlin.”
“Are you a native?” I asked. She didn’t have an accent, well, other than her American one.
“No,” she shook her head. “I ended up here a few months ago. What about you? You’re British, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I opened the door to the building she had stopped in front of. “What do you mean when you say you ‘ended up here?’”
She shrugged. “I travel wherever I feel like it. I can get work pretty much anywhere.”
“What is it that you do?” I asked stepping into a door she had opened this time.
I stopped in awe. The room was filled with strings of twine, hung into lines across the room, with photos hanging off of clothing line clips. There were polaroids and small pictures and big pictures. Each one was slightly different.
“I,” she smiled. “Take pictures.”
♠ ♠ ♠
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