An Untimely Friend Request

"But why? Are you pregnant?"

"That's none of your business. But no. I'm not pregnant. And I can't believe you're asking me why I've quit. Smoking is extremely unhealthy. Everybody knows that."

I got hold of the busy waitress:

"Excuse me, could we please get a table inside?"

"I'm sorry? When I took the reservation, the gentleman specifically asked for a table outside because he said you wanted to smoke. And that's only possible at this row of outside tables."

"That must be a misunderstanding. I don't smoke. And I want to sit inside where it's warm and where people don't blow smoke in my face while I eat."

"Well, then I'm sorry. You were lucky to get this table because we had a cancellation. All the tables inside are taken."

"But there are lots of empty tables!" I said and pointed to the inside of the boat.

"Yes. Due to the Coronavirus we need to keep empty tables."

"I see. Thanks."

I remained standing, indecisively as the waitress removed the clean ashtray from our table and hurried on to serve other guests. Lothar got up and put his jacket around my shoulders. Reluctantly I sat down.

Lothar poured wine into my glass and we dived into our menus while I glanced enviously at the two women at the table behind Lothar who were enjoying their cigarettes.

"I think I'll have the calamari as a starter. I mean, in honour of your squidgy tattoo," Lothar joked.

I decided to let that one fall flat:

"Could you please stop referring to my body parts as something you can eat? It's not funny!"

"Come on, Sara! We joked about this yesterday."

"That's possible. But as I said: Yesterday was yesterday. So will you please stop joking about my breasts?"

The smoking women at the next table turned their heads toward me as I had raised my voice at the end of my last sentence. Maybe they didn't like when men made jokes about their tits either.

Lothar chose another appetizer.

He worked hard to get a conversation going, asking me about my day at work, if I'd heard from Miranda and stuff. I kept giving short answers like 'yes', 'no' and 'maybe' without contributing in any way to establishing a nice atmosphere. This went on for about 20 minutes while we ate our starters. When the waitress had picked up our plates, I moved on to the delicate subject:

"You sent me a friend request on Facebook?"

"Did I?"

"Yes you did. On the 15^th of May."

Lothar was silent.

"And I'm wondering what made you send me a friend request in May when we only met yesterday."

"I don't know. It must have been a mistake," he mumbled.

"A mistake? So you not only went to my Facebook profile by mistake? You also sent a friend request to a woman you didn't know by mistake? Do you often make that kind of mistakes, Lothar?"

"I don't know."

"You also liked a picture of me on Facebook on the 13^th of May. Do you remember that?"

"I don't think so."

"It's a picture of me having a beer and a smoke with some friends. Why do you like that picture so much?"

"I don't remember."

"Maybe it was another mistake?"

"Could be."

Now Lothar was the one with the short answers.

"Another question: What were you doing at a quarter to seven yesterday morning in front of my house?"

We were interrupted by the waitress who brought our main courses and we were silent while she served them.

"I was going for a run."

"But you live in Wandsbek. Why don't you run in Wandsbek?"

"I... like to run around the Außenalster."

"Okay. So you drive from Wandsbek and park your car in front of a gateway, where you will most probably pay a hefty fine and then you decide to drive me and my daughter to Travemünde."

"Yes."

Neither of us had touched the full plates in front of us yet.

"Did you let the air out of my tyre?"

"Why are you asking that?"

"Because my mechanic tells me there was nothing wrong with the tyre or the valve and that someone let the air out of it. Was that another mistake of yours, Lothar?"

His expression changed. He almost looked like he was going to cry. I pushed on:

"I just paid my mechanic 25 € to find out that the tyre was all right. And I'd like the person who let the air out to pay."

I took the receipt from my pocket and demonstratively put it down next to Lothar's plate.

He mumbled something about a phone.

"What? I didn't hear you!"

"I said: Do you have the PayPal app on your phone?"

"Yes."

Lothar started transferring money to my account from his phone. I filled up my empty wine glass and took a large swig.

"I take this as a confession," I said. "But I would also like an explanation. You seem to have been stalking me online for months. I guess you've found the Sylt pictures on the internet. Haven't you?"

"Yes," he nodded.

"When I smoked yesterday... You liked it? Didn't you?"

"Yes."

"I think you get an erection when you see a woman smoke. Don't you?"

"Sometimes."

"What about when I smoked yesterday? Did you get a hard-on when you saw me smoke?"

"I guess."

"Do you know that every single week I get friend requests on Facebook from men I don't know? Most of them with foreign names. Would you want to be friends with people when all you know about them is that the get a hard-on from watching you smoke cigarettes and parading your 19-year-old naked boobs decorated with body paint?"

"I guess not."

"I've got 3.600 male followers on Facebook. And counting. I believe you're one of them, aren't you?"

"Yes."

I emptied and filled my glass again before I continued:

"I think that most of my fans on Facebook and most of the men who want to be my so-called friends on Facebook have a smoking fetish. That means that watching a woman smoke a cigarette is a turn-on to them. And I think you have a smoking fetish."

"I know."

"Good. At least you know it. Now eat your food. It's getting cold."

We ate in silence for some minutes. I ordered another bottle of wine, knowing that Lothar would pay for it, and considered my next move.

Then, all of a sudden, Lothar started speaking in longer sentences:

"You know I came across your pictures a couple of months ago. When I looked for them I started finding them on several websites in Germany, in Europe, in America and in the Far East."

"I know. They've gotten around," I commented and sipped some wine.

"I started downloading pictures and put them in sequence, trying to reconstruct the order in which they were taken. I created series like 'the red dress', 'the blue dress', 'the BMW', 'at the body painter's', 'at the lighthouse', 'at the casino' and so on. I played them as slideshows and really enjoyed them. At some point I had downloaded all I could find and I felt I needed to get closer to you."

I nodded, encouraging him to go on.

"In some commentary thread under a picture of you on the internet I found out that your full name is Sara Cremers."

"Really?"

"Yes. The rest was a piece of cake. I googled you and found you on Facebook. Your profile picture looks pretty much like how you looked at Sylt."

Personally, I have no trouble finding differences between my look 16 years ago and today. But there was no reason to interrupt him. He went on:

"On Facebook I found out that you work as a nurse at the Cancer Center of the UKE. Your private address and phone number are listed. So I knew where you live. I went there and recognized your car. Then I found an old Facebook post where your ex-husband had tagged you."

"So you also stalked Andreas?"

"Just a little bit to get in touch with you. Last week he posted about the yacht trip and how much he and his girlfriend were looking forward to welcoming Miranda in Travemünde on Sunday morning. I did some surveillance work outside your house on Saturday, making sure that you and Miranda were home."

"So you've actually been physically stalking me?" I asked angrily, emptying my glass.

"A bit. Yes," he admitted.

"As a law student I'm sure you know what a restraining order is. Don't you?"

"I do. Anyway, I decided to be at your house early Sunday morning and make contact. I didn't get much sleep that night. And I was so relieved when I arrived at five in the morning and saw that your BMW was still there. Then I waited for almost two hours before you came down. When I saw you, you were just so strikingly beautiful. All the hundreds of photos faded in comparison. You know... I had imagined you were my age when I had looked at the photos."

"They were taken in 2004."

"Yes. I knew that but... inside my head you were my age. Anyway, it was amazing to see your beautiful, sun-tanned body, your gorgeous face, your cleft chin and to hear your raspy voice..."

I cleared my throat:

"You think I have a raspy voice?"

"Yes. You have this deep, hoarse kind of voice. And it's incredibly sexy."

"Really?"

"Yes. And then your tattoos surprised me. They make you look so different."

"Here I am: 16 years, one marriage, one child, 15.000 € worth of tattoos and 150.000 cigarettes later. This is how that looks and sounds," I said and gulped down another glass of wine.

"But, Sara, I think you're even more beautiful than on those old pictures. You've just aged so well."

Aged? Am I old? I thought. But I made sure to stay silent. And if it was meant as a compliment, it is probably unwise to thank your stalker for the compliments he pays you.

"And I just love your tattoos, you know that?"

"Yes. You've told me. And I don't want you to start over. Now tell me: Why did you have to let the air out of my tyre?"

"Well... that was a way to make contact."

"Do you think it was a good way?"

"It worked. And besides... Would you have said yes if I had just walked up to you and said that I'd been drooling over your pictures for months and that I wanted to get to know you?"

"Probably not," I smiled at the thought.

"Look, I'm sorry about the tyre. But the whole point was that I would help you out of the mess I'd created and drive you and Miranda to Travemünde."

"And then on the way back you had a chance to make your move."

"Yes. At a time when you were feeling grateful because I had helped you out. And I was so happy when you said yes to go to the lake. Asking you to go for a naked swim was sort of a breaking point."

"And lucky for you that you knew a good place to go skinny dipping."

"That was no coincidence. I had spent hours on the internet planning that."

We had finished eating and the waitress came to pick up our plates.

"Would you like a dessert?" she inquired.

Lothar looked at me.

"I'll have the tiramisu," I said, leaving the bill to Lothar.

"The same for me, please," he said.

My hands were searching for the cigarettes I had left on my kitchen counter. This would have been a good time to light up. Instead, I continued my line of questioning:

"I guess you don't have problems finding a girlfriend? I mean... the way you look."

"I don't. But I don't want any girlfriend. I want you. Sara!"

"You want me? I could be your mother. Technically! I'm 35!"

"I know. But you are not my mother. You're the girl I'm in love with. Or woman."

"You seriously want me to be your girlfriend? Just because you've been jerking off with some pictures of my painted boobs from when I was 19?"

"No. That's not why. It's because we spent an amazing day together yesterday. It's because I got to know you. And I really really like you. I think you're smart and beautiful and I think we're on the same wavelength."

"And you had a constant hard-on yesterday whenever I had a cigarette. So it's a little hard to believe that your feelings for me go beyond your smoking fetish. I think you want to date a sexy smoking woman and not actually me as a person."

"That's not true."

"So now that I've quit smoking... Do you still want me?"

"Yesterday I went from getting a kick out of the photos to falling in love with you. And of course I'm still in love now that you are a non-smoker."

"What about your fetish?"

"Believe me, I have other criteria for falling in love with a woman besides smoking?"

"So if I become your girlfriend now as a non-smoker, I don't have to worry that you'll start looking for another smoker to fall in love with?"

"No, Sara. It's you I want."

"And you won't be looking at those pictures on the internet longing for me to smoke?"

"I want you just as you are, Sara. I'm in love with you."

From the waitress' smile I could tell that she had heard Lothar's love declaration as she came back to serve our tiramisu. We started eating our dessert, which was very good. But I would have preferred a cigarette.

After a few mouthfuls I responded:

"I think you've been extremely childish and unrealistic, Lothar. And I really think that your behaviour is not a good basis for a relationship."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You have every reason to be. You know I could report you to the police and have you punished," I said.

"Please don't!"

"You've been stalking me online and in real life. And you've let the air out of my tyre, which is vandalism. You could be punished for those things."

"I know. Please forgive me!"

I paused as I scraped the last bit of dessert out of the small bowl and put it into my mouth.

Then I continued, as I pushed back the empty bowl:

"Don't worry! I'm not going to report you. But..."

"Thank you, Sara!" Lothar said, obviously relieved.

As I said nothing, he added:

"But what?"

"But now I have two problems."

"Yes?" he said. I had Lothar's full attention now.

"The first problem is that I would really like a cigarette right now!"

"But you've quit."

"I haven't. I just said so to see your reaction."

Lothar grinned broadly:

"How did you like my reaction then?"

"It was... sweet. You said you'd take me even as a non-smoker."

"I would. But I really love it when you smoke. And I'm relieved you haven't quit."

"So am I. This has been really hard. You know I haven't had a cigarette since six."

It was past nine o'clock.

"Do you think that might have made you even a bit more irritated than you were already?"

"Oh, definitely. And that was good. I wanted to appear as obnoxious as possible when I confronted you."

I smiled at Lothar and continued:

"The trouble now is I actually left my cigarettes at home."

Lothar immediately took the hint and jumped to his feet, leaving the rest of the tiramisu in his bowl:

"I'll get you some. There's a kiosk down the street."

"It's Camel Blue," I shouted at him as he had turned around.

"I know," he said, walking away fast, almost running.

Of course he did. Silly me.

In the less than five minutes he was gone, I ordered two espressos. Before they were served, Lothar was back, a bit out of his athletic non-smoker's breath, laying down a pack of regular Camel Filters in front of me on the table.

"The Blues were sold out. But I stayed in the Camel species," he explained as he sat down.

"That's okay. My lungs need a boost of extra nicotine by now," I replied as I impatiently opened the pack and ripped out a cigarette.

The waitress, who had watched my little scene of wanting another table because I had apparently quit smoking, served our espressos.

"Could I have a light and an ashtray please?" I asked with the unlit cigarette between my lips.

"Naturally," she responded with a knowing I-told-you-so kind of smile. I shrugged and smiled innocently back at her. Lothar noticed the exchange with the broad grin he'd been wearing since I confessed that I had no intention of quitting.

The smiling waitress lit my Camel with her own lighter. I took a deep inhale and enjoyed the stronger cigarette.

"I'll bring the ashtray right away," she added and turned around.

"This feels so good," I said, exhaling smoke as I spoke.

"Yes it does," Lothar agreed. "I really like to watch you smoke. Particularly those strong cigarettes."

"Oh, really? The brand matters to you?"

"Yeah. Probably as much as it does to you."

"That's fascinating!" I said and took another inhale. I thought for a moment, then asked:

"Was it a lie when you told me that my brand was sold out?"

The grin he sent me clearly meant yes, even though he said "Maybe". I sent a huge plume of smoke directly into his face, which just broadened his grin.

"You should try filterless, Sara," he added through the thick cloud of smoke that quickly drifted away over the canal in the light breeze.

The waitress brought the ashtray and Lothar asked for the bill.

"Filterless is so annoying!" I said, shaking my head before taking another drag. "You always get these tiny shreds of tobacco in your mouth and then you need to remove them."

"But that's the fun part. I bet you'd look super-hot doing that."

"Thanks. I might consider smoking filterless someday," I said, exhaling a small smoke cloud with each word.

"Why not now?" Lothar asked and produced a pack of filterless Camel cigarettes from his pocket. He put it next to my ashtray and continued:

"I tell you they had all kinds of Camel cigarettes in that kiosk."

"I can see that," I smiled and picked up the pack with one hand while depositing my cigarette between my lips with the other.

I removed the cellophane from the pack, picked a filterless Camel from it and lit the cigarette with the one I was smoking already.

"The taste is fine. Strong and fine," I commented while putting out the first cigarette in the ashtray.

Immediately I felt the need to remove a wayward shred of tobacco from my tongue, which I did.

"See what I mean?" I said, flipping the tiny bit off my little finger and into the canal.

"Do you see what I mean, Sara? Exactly that is the good part. When you take the bit of tobacco away with your thumb and little finger while holding the cigarette between your index and middle fingers. Don't you get how cool that looks?"

"You think that's sexy, Lothar?"

"That's extremely sexy, Sara! I just love seeing you do that."

I smiled back at him as I took another deep inhale:

"Now tell me about your fetish," I asked at the moment when the waitress returned with the bill. Having heard the question, she smiled again. I just smiled back at her while Lothar waited with his answer until she had gone.

For the next half hour, Lothar described his fascination with smoking women in general and with me in particular. I, not wanting to bother the waitress, picked up the filter cigarette from the ashtray and relit it with the butt of the filterless.

"I'll get back to the filterless. I just don't want to waste this," I explained to Lothar.

"Don't worry. I'd take you even if you only smoke filter cigarettes."

"That's good to know," I said as I butted out the filterless and blew smoke towards Lothar.

"I forgot to ask: What was the other problem, Sara?"

"The other problem?"

"Yes. You said you had two problems. Before I got you your cigarettes. What was the other?"

"You really want to now?"

"Yes. Maybe I can help you with that too."

"I think you can."

"You do? What is it?"

I took a deep inhale from my cigarette and enjoyed the smoke in my lungs for a few seconds. Then I spoke slowly with a small cloud of smoke leaving my mouth with each word:

"I hope I don't regret this when I'm sober. But I really, really want to..."

"What?" Lothar asked as I exhaled the last smoke from my drag.

"...take you home and fuck you."

Lothar's grin broadened:

"I'm sure that could be arranged. Let's go!"

He got up immediately and reached out for my hand. I took the two packs of cigarettes in one hand and Lothar in the other and we left the ship hand in hand.

"Do you remember when I tried to kiss you yesterday, Sara?" Lothar asked as we stood on the quay by the gangway after leaving the restaurant. I was almost at the end of the evening's third Camel, which was filterless because I had switched back to accommodate Lothar and because I found it hilarious that he could get a hard-on when I removed a bit of tobacco from my tongue.