Life is too short for boring stories

He drank of his beer as he listened to her. And that should be the woman from whom a friend had said she’d have to get out, otherwise she would totally mute at home. Automatically, he had remembered that she was one of those who had just separated from some guy and was now sitting alone at home, and no longer out of grief and misery about the prodigal. This did not fit with the picture that she offered here, nor with the one he had received so far. It was true, they had only met once, twice, and only fleetingly. A few words changed, somehow by the way, but the enough to give him the impression of an independent, strong woman to mediate, as the one, because of a man in a depression, with all related consequences, ride. But well, that had already caught quite another.

Actually, he said, he was glad she was there. Completely against all expectation, she brought with her mood and joy of life, as she stood there, in her high heels, the black stockings with the seam and the black, adjoining dress. Again and again his eyes wandered as if by chance over her silhouette, to her feet. He estimated the pencil heels about ten centimeters. Still, she reached out to him, as he could see in the greeting. She was slim, almost tender, but still full of incredible energy. It seemed to him as if to conquer. And her smile made her face shine, especially when she told something she was passionate about. As if an untamed passion would burn in her. “If she showed her the same by sex?” He asked himself involuntarily as he imagined that the stockings with the seam that she wore were really real stockings that she had combined with a lace-studded garter belt. Probably it was different. Almost certainly it was different. Nowadays women had to go fast. And practically it had to be. He did not admit to admit that stockings with holders were neither quick to put on nor practical. They were simply feminine and erotic. And what the hell, should be as bad as to be feminine and erotic. It did not always have to be. At work and at sport, he could understand it. Especially with the sport, it should be practical, but on other occasions, there was nothing to change. He was convinced that women who were wearing the right stockings differently moved accordingly. That nourished his hope that it could be so.

“We’ll say good-bye,” he was suddenly torn from his thoughts and back into reality. He had only invited a few friends, just to get back together. Unfortunately, it happened less frequently. There was too much to do. And one becomes sluggish with age. Nevertheless, he had managed to get them out of their homes. He automatically looked at the clock. Just before midnight it was. Actually still relatively early for a Saturday evening. Then he turned back to her, who listened attentively, while her mutual friend now told. Probably she had encouraged him, because he was not very talkative. He realized that she could also listen. And that his beer was empty. He was about to go to the refrigerator to get a new one when he looked at her again. Something was wrong, he realized immediately. Her eyelids fluttered, her pupils twisted. He had just enough time to take a step forward to catch her when she fainted. The bottle crashed on the ground. It does not matter. Carefully, he had taken her in his arms, one under her back, the other just above the knees, so he could hold her safely. The dress was a little slipped up, so that his hand came to rest on her naked thighs. Warm and soft, her skin felt, and yes, she actually wore real stockings.


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