***

After a meeting with the guests from Indonesia, I invited a few colleagues out for beers. We picked a restaurant near my apartment.

Normally, I never stop by that café. Too bright. Too noisy.

But my steps slowed when I saw someone sitting alone by the window.

I didn’t remember her name.

But I recognized that face.

I didn’t remember her name. Just that moment she fainted at the airport. I thought the Indonesian girl in the green sweater needed a doctor. I was about to call an ambulance—but weirdly enough, she woke up, climbed onto a table, and shouted at me: “Rendang!”

Mrs. Widya said her secretary was just stressed from losing her suitcase. So I agreed when the staff brought her to my apartment to rest.

But why is she out here now?

With a laptop. Alone.

I thought she wasn’t lying about being exhausted.

Now I’m not so sure.

She was sitting alone, watching the people inside the café.

Mostly men.

Her eyes moved quickly—from one man to another. Up and down. Up again.

Like she was... selecting fresh meat.

I didn’t know what she was looking for. But it didn’t feel like beer.

I wasn’t sure what she was after.

When her burger arrived, she laughed to herself.

Then bit into it fiercely, like she was taking revenge on life.

What the hell is going on?

Why is she laughing to herself?

Then—suddenly—she licked her fingers, sticky with cheese.

There were feelings. No rules. Disgusting.

I looked away. It’s rude to stare at someone too long.

But if she really needed rest, why was she sitting in a café?

One of my colleagues asked, "Skal vi herhen? Havnens Kaffe?" — are we drinking here?

"Ja. Lad os bare sidde foran," I said, pointing to an empty table by the door. They looked hesitant—we usually picked quieter places.

I shrugged. Maybe they didn’t like drinking here.

Then I went inside.

The cashier greeted me, "God aften! Hvordan går det?"

"God aften. Vi sidder ved bordet foran," I replied, pointing to where my colleagues were waiting.

The cashier nodded. "Ah, godt. Vi henter menukortet til dig, herre," and went to fetch the menu.

I looked at the girl again. Her eyes were still closed, as if that cholesterol-packed burger was her last meal on earth.

She reminded me of that “Rendang!” scream—such an absurd word. Like a war cry from a starving soldier. Strangely, now she was munching on a burger like she’d never fainted at all.

I decided to approach her.

I don’t like liars.

Just a few steps in, those black eyes locked onto me—like a worker caught sneaking off early.

Maybe she realized I had caught her here.

She looked... ridiculous.

Her hair was like a lion’s mane. And a giant burger with melting yellow cheese clung to the corner of her mouth.

I only asked what she was doing here.

Suddenly, she choked.

Her face turned pale—like a herring refusing to be part of a smørrebrød.

Then I remembered—she didn’t understand Danish.

"So... sorry?"

She was still coughing.

Ha. Liars always panic.

I grabbed a bottle of water from the cashier’s counter and handed it to her.

"Did I startle you?"

"N-no! Not at all!"

Melted cheese was still on the corner of her lips. Disgusting. But her expression... hungry.

Oh. Maybe she really hadn’t eaten since the airport. Did the staff forget to feed her?

"Why are you eating here? Has the food not arrived yet?"

Her eyes widened. Glassy.

That face looked tired. Clearly unwell.

And still covered in cheese—on her lips, cheeks, even a shiny dot glistening on her eyebrow.

"I don't know. I'm just hungry."

So there wasn’t any food? Or was she just acting?

I reached into my coat pocket—empty.

Of course. I’d left my phone at the office.

"I’ll call the staff," I said, half-turning away.

I had barely moved my foot when she stood up—

And grabbed my sleeve.

"No... no, you don't need to do that!"

Her hand stayed there.

Small fingers, greasy... and glistening with cheddar—like it was jewelry.

Nu rabler det for hende.

This woman has truly lost her mind. She doesn’t understand boundaries. Insane.

After screaming, lying—now she’s touching me with cheese-stained hands?

She froze.

So did I.

Then came that pause—silent, stiff, suspended in the air.

Even time seemed to hold its breath.

"S-sorry! I mean—sorry!" she stammered, then began wiping my sleeve like a nanny cleaning a toddler’s dining table.

The cheese melted.

Now it wasn’t just fingerprints. It was a glowing yellow abstract mess—like a failed art piece from Aarhus’s cheese festival.

I raised an eyebrow. Waiting.

But she wasn’t done.

Her movements became more frantic. More erratic.

And that’s when I realized—

The touch felt strange.

The fabric was wet. Cold. Heavy, like a burden.

Her eyes widened.

But her fingers stayed on my sleeve.

As if... she didn’t know how to stop.

"Lort! Stop touching me!"

I snapped.

Both her hands flew up, full of guilt. Her face turned bright red. Funny... in a sad way.

I sighed.

Grabbed a napkin from her table—because of course, I had to clean this jacket myself.

"I’ll pay for the dry cleaning!"

A short sound escaped my throat. Not a laugh. More like... a biological reflex.

Insane woman.

Did she think I couldn’t afford a new jacket?

I could buy a dozen—without even opening my wallet.

"No, I don’t need it."

"I’ll pay for the dry cleaning!"

She insisted. Even shoved a crumpled envelope at me.

I didn’t touch it. She was insulting me.

I turned away.

Enough. This matter is done.

I returned to my colleagues. Sat down.

Ignoring the woman who had caused me nothing but trouble.

On the table—beer and steak were already waiting.

Finally—a quiet evening.

But just as I took a sip of beer—

She came back.

That woman approached me. Who knew what for this time.

"Sir, I... I apologize. I've been a total disaster today!"

Both my colleagues turned to look.

"Hun ligner en, der lige er røget ud af en vaskemaskine. Er du sikker på, hun ikke er syg?"

She looks like someone who just came out of a washing machine. Are you sure she’s not sick?

Yeah, they thought she looked crazy too.

I wasn’t going to admit I knew her.

But she said hello to you, Lou.

I didn’t respond.

I didn’t know her.

That beer suddenly tasted much better.

One of my colleagues nudged my arm and whispered:

"Hun ligner en, der lige er røget ud af en vaskemaskine. Hun er grim."

She looks like she just came out of a washing machine. And she’s ugly.

I took another sip—

My beer was almost tasteless now.

I ignored her panicked gaze behind that tangled hair.

For some reason, she looked scared.

The smell of cheese still clung to my sleeve—sharp. Intrusive.

I didn’t like it.

"Yes. She ugly."

--