7
I don’t want to go on living. But how can you do that, how can you ‘not live’? I go over to the window. As if to spite me, my window is on the ground floor. But if it were that window! What else can you do to ‘not live’? What tablets do I have lying around?
My archaeological dig in the medicine cupboard was interrupted by the phone’s impudently persistent ring. Forgot to take it off the hook, again…
“Hello!”
It’s Vassa, the elderly flautist from our orchestra. A lady with a face from a foreign laxative ad, Beta would joke. But Vassa evidently took this grimace which stretched her painted lips for a smile. I don’t really like her, of course, but I’m giving her son piano lessons: Vassa herself doesn’t play well, she can’t teach him. But she’s not calling about her son now.
She’s sympa
