Countdown, click, open your eyes. Another bus, pulling away from the stop, douses us both with its vibrating bass. The bench beneath us will break, and we’ll find ourselves wedged between its two halves, sitting on the dusty asphalt. We’ll look around and see Dopfelheimer, who, having sat in the cafe for a couple of days after our dialogue, will be exiting it, hacking up something acridly colored and fanning himself with a ticket to Frankfurt.

“Nothing happened,” you’ll say. And I’ll think: “It was all supposed to be this way.” And most importantly, in that moment, that same old lady with the rainbow on her chest doesn’t descend upon my head. No, she won’t descend on me. She’ll be standing at the bus stop, watching the departing bus, muttering the same words. You’d know how much she irritates me!

And I’ll start giving answers. I’ll say what’s superfluous. Superfluous is dissonance. I’ll think and say what’s main. The main thing is sexuality, multiplied by an idea. Well, how much can you take? I’ll ponder that too. And I’ll say: “Let’s go, right now!”—and you’ll watch me as I stand up and dust myself off, and then I’ll offer you my hand and hear the answer: “Finally!”—damn it, why not sooner! Because of the house of cards. But really, why not, if nothing happened!

Another bus will pull up.

Countdown, click, open your eyes. The old lady is already boarding; we hold hands. We are tactile-maniacs.

Will we make it?