Trysted Sister

This is my first trip as a brunette, and it's not going well. (Story about how Karen - Kansas City Karen - accidentally turned my hair blue before departure saved for another time.) Doors that are usually open to me remained closed, and the cabbies who rip me off don't even try to chat me up while they're doing it. Blond will be back, and soon.

Through the snow and the S-bahns back to Ed’s, and stop at the corner restaurant he’s highly recommended, the Honigmond. The dining room and the greeting are warm, although the bartender points to my head and says something strong. I suspect this is another slam on my hair, but it turns out he’s observed the snow clinging to every exposed strand and is just telling me I should be wearing a hat.

I’m seated eight inches away from an American blonde and her German lover. She has a loud suburban Chicago voice and is wearing a platinum engagement ring. He is not telling his wife about their divorce until Chicago’s father arranges a work visa and everything is clear with U.S. immigration. (Confidential to Andrea in Hamburg: Empty the bank accounts NOW.)

The waitress takes my order in English. Mr. Hamburg notices but Chicago is too busy talking. “Ohmygod, I would never believe you’re THIRTY-ONE. You have so much ENERGY. Have you told your parents about me yet?” When she goes to the restroom, I give him a slightly evil smile. It’s amazing how fast the sweat can bead up on someone’s upper lip.

When Chicago returns, his covert attempts to silence her do not go over well. He begins by speaking in German. “Hamburger, you KNOW I hate foreign things. Don’t make me learn grammar.” (She has earlier rebuffed his attempts to teach her ‘Thirty days hath September.’ Calendars are hard.)

By this time I know Herr Hamburger’s name, his full date of birth, and the newspaper he works for. He becomes increasingly agitated and begins answering every intimate question with “I’ll tell you later.”

“What?!?” Chicago moans. “It’s her, isn’t it? You’re seeing her this weekend.”

Hamburger Man calls for the check when I finish my Konigsberger Klopse mit Karpernsauce, lean back and order a second glass of wine. (Does he catch the scent of eau de journo?) After refusing Chicago’s demands for dessert, he hustles her out into the snow. My last glimpse of the happy couple is of them gawping at me through the restaurant window. By this time, I’ve pulled out my notebook. Good luck, kids.