These are the German girls, right? Okay.
Bright, round-faced and curly-haired brunette singing ‘aloo’ into her phone pushing her bicycle around the tor, or the sunken-faced blond wearing black thick-framed glasses perched on an even more curated nose, or the steel-eyed mother with raven hair pushing a pram carriage wearing layers of clothes that come with autumn weather, or all the teenage eastern bloc girls in too much blush, tight jeans stuffed into tighter sneakers, or a beige complected girl wearing a silk hijab whose brow sees out like an eagle’s.
Sober ones who clop in their heels; the ones on the U-Bahn laughing a lot to themselves; all the ones in black stockings too efficient to waste time on a passing view.
Some study medicine or a social service at the University because, you see, the State gives a damn. They are the best conversation so long as you hold up your end of the bargain. And the one girl in the black and white polka dot dress with milk skin, pulled up wheat hair, and stuffed cheeks on either side of red, red lips—Hitler’s springtime—which is to say an ideal except not perverted. I hope this was not a perversion.