Page 27 of White Room Virgin

“Ah, Luuu,” she said with a transfigured smile. “Just follow the music.”

Not quite as energetic as on the way here, I descended the stairs. At some point, music did indeed reach my ears. The further I walked down the dimly lit corridor, the louder it became. It came from the last room at the end of the corridor. As I stood outside the door and heard the angry shouting, distorted guitars, and rolling drums, I grimaced.

You can hardly call that music.

I hesitated.

What am I doing here anyway?

But then I remembered the poem and pulled the sheet out of my jacket pocket. Just seeing it again made me angry enough to crumple it up and walk into the studio with determination.

I entered a large, brightly lit room. During the day, the upper windows must have let in a lot of sunlight. Brushes, paint cans, tubes, and spatulas lay on a long wooden table, and there wasalso a laptop with a stack of newspapers and magazines next to it. There was a printer under the table and a sink and fridge next to the entrance. Canvas of all sizes and several easels leaned against it. On the wall in front of me were three paintings that were probably still being worked on, and a large one was lying on the floor. Aggressive metal music blared from a nearby CD player as I spotted Lucien. He lay sound asleep on a dark green sofa, with his face turned toward the wall.

I switched off the music and kicked the couch. Lucien turned around, startled, and opened his eyes. He looked so innocent in his dirty painter’s pants and white shirt. His hair stood up in all directions, and when he blinked at me, he looked strangely cute in his confusion. Before he could say anything, I held out the piece of paper to him. “Why are you doing this?”

13

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Lucien

I didn’t understand anything. After working like a maniac for almost two weeks, the party in the rehearsal room the day before the opening hadn’t been such a good idea after all. The thing with Noé got me thinking, so I had returned to the studio straight after and worked like crazy until Sunday evening. After hanging up the new poems late in the evening, I finally found some peace and drifted into an almost comatose sleep. I woke up a few times to the music playing on an endless loop, but in the end, I was too exhausted to turn it off.

The kick against the couch had woken me from a deep sleep. My heart was racing, and I was breathing heavily. My whole body was on alert. As I became aware of the silence, I glanced nervously at the CD player. It was still in the same place, so it hadn’t fallen down due to a quake or something.

Jonah stood in front of the couch and held a sheet of paper with the latest poem in front of my nose. I stared at it dumbfounded for what seemed like an eternity before my mind slowly started functioning again.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked sternly.

“Bloody hell …” I rubbed my eyes. “Is that really why you’re here?” I slowly got to my feet. My entire body ached, particularly my head. My mouth was completely dry, and I felt incredibly weak. Like a zombie, I dragged myself to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Downing half of it in big gulps, I could feel it coursing through my body. With a sigh of relief, I tilted my head until it cracked.

“Now tell me!” Jonah demanded behind me.

I put the water down and turned to face him. He still held the green paper but no longer held it out to me. He looked at me with a serious expression.

“I told you not to take everything so personally.” He wasn’t my only source of inspiration.

“That’s insulting!”

“That’s art.”

“I’m not your muse!” he shouted indignantly.

We were silent for a moment, and I noticed Jonah’s eyes fixate on the overflowing trash can. It was full to the brim with empty beer cans and takeaway food wrappers that had accumulated over the last two weeks. The expression on his face conveyed a sense of shock, which I found unsettling, although I was already aware of it. I didn’t need a mirror to know I’d gone overboard. But I had sold both paintings during the opening. It had been worth it; my next semester was secured.

I nervously ran my fingers through my hair. Usually, I wouldn’t mind being caught off guard in such a state, but with Jonah, it felt different. I didn’t want him to witness me like this—exhausted and utterly drained. He regarded me with the gaze one would give to a forlorn stray dog.

“My parents have left again,” he mentioned in a conciliatory tone. “So you can show your face at home again.”

“Hallelujah,” I replied irritably and turned the music back on.

“What are you doing?” Jonah shouted.

The music stopped abruptly—he really pulled the plug.

It didn’t make any sense at all. Even though he was standing two steps away from me, I could smell his scent. His lips reminded me of our kiss, and then the images of the dirty fantasy I’d had of Noé blowing me came back. I sighed. “Why are you here?”

Jonah clenched his hand, further crumpling the already wrinkled paper. I could see that he was struggling not to get carried away by his feelings. Could it be that he hadn’t been so averse to the kiss two weeks ago? Because even though he tried to tell me with a grim look that he was serious, his body told me otherwise. He stood tensely in front of me in his black jogging bottoms and brown windbreaker but still appeared as if he wanted to throw his arms around my neck. His breath came irregularly, yet he stubbornly maintained eye contact. Then, he nervously licked his lips.

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