You could see that the adrenaline was running to her cheeks. She had organised the squat, done all the paper research and was young. If you looked at the soft round skin of her face and saw her smile, you would tell her pretty. Now, she was scared. Her face showed angst and attention. The knocking became louder. The door was barricaded with wooden beams.
"I have hit the foot of the chair with my shoe," said I.
She didn't hear it. Just like the time that the wind had blown the tissue paper into the candle and the table was alight.
"Someone is knocking."
At her left a guy with a bare shaven head was starting an animated conversation with me. About the sky, about his mother, the countries he had lived in, the abusive husbands, she choose, how he had fended them off, how one had been shot by the Iranian secret service, how he had met his girl-friend, fucked another hundred, made a million selling water and lost it in a sea of consumption; all before the age of twenty-two.
He was in his early thirties, had a skinny face and looked battered. Beaten and broken by the natural course of life, shoven to the sidelines of our society, seeking a small place to stay or a narrow path to hope, what ever that would mean.
He smiled and inhaled the precious marijuana out of his cigarette. Life can be great!
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