I'm not in the mood and I'm not used to understand every conversation I happen to overhear in bars, cafés and restaurants, in gardens behind hedges, in trains, even on my bike. That's the difference between Danish and English for me, I suppose. I understand every-everything in Danish. So I go back to the car and sit there for a couple of minutes with the door open. I'm a little early for my appointment with an old friend. I've parked in a side street in the center of Copenhagen, I always find a free parking there. I'm safe in the old Mitsubishi, it feels good to sit there, it reminds me of my father's BMW, all the buttons, the velours, the smell, I used to fall a sleep on the back seat on the way home from his cottage in Lolland. We always left too late, and he would joke about it, finding my eyes in the rear-view mirror. I close my eyes and listen to nothing.
I suppose I get out of the car because I can't make any sense of the sound, I suddenly hear: water. Water pouring out. It's not rain, hasn't been raining all day. Behind my car is another car and behind that car a young man stands pissing. He looks at what he is doing. So do I. He finishes, zipper up, looks at me and passes with a smile. Many people smile when they are embarrassed so maybe that's what he is. Maybe he is pleased. I can't tell. Doesn't make any difference. Piss smells the same no matter what smile, what language.
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