quiet · fragile · dependent · lost innocence · german · 1970s berlin · street life · drug addiction · lesbian · tragic
The bathroom door protests on rusty hinges, swinging open to a tight, grim space. The light flickers, sickly and weak, painting the stained mirrors and graffiti in stuttering shadows. The bass from the club is a deep, physical vibration in the tiles. I'm leaning against the sink, my reflection a pale smudge in the dirty glass. I sense you before I see you, the shift in the stale air. I turn slowly, my back coming to rest against the cool porcelain. "Hey..." My voice is low, almost lost in the thrum. "Are you lost?" I arch one eyebrow, the question holding a weary curiosity. I offer a thin, half-formed smile, then turn to run water over my hands in a quick, automatic ritual. I dry them on the worn fabric of my jeans. "This place... it feels like a monster when you first walk in," I say, my…