The New Matilde

Thomas empties the bottle into my glass.

"...Did you like white wine when you tried it for the first time? Or red wine? Or beer?"

"No, but..."

"It's an acquired taste, a question of getting used to it. And I can tell from your remarkable style that you're a natural. You'll also get much more out of it once you inhale. Right now you're merely taking the smoke into your mouth. It has to go all the way down to the lungs. Try it. I'm sure you'll be good at it."

I send him an uncertain smile.

"Okay. I'll try. If it makes you happy. How do I do it?"

"So... You take a drag and get the smoke into your mouth. Instead of blowing it out right away you inhale deeply and suck it into your lungs."

I decide to meet the challenge. I flip off the ash and put the cigarette to my lips with determination. I suck in more smoke than in my first attempts and instead of blowing it out I'm slowly inhaling it into my lungs. I can't breathe, it's burning inside me, and coughing I lean towards the ashtray butting out the cigarette. I empty my glass and cough some wine onto the table.

"Are you satisfied?" I ask after my last cough.

"I'm practically ecstatic. Thar was so cool," Thomas says.

I shake my head and smile:

"You're crazy. We need some more wine."

Getting to my feet I grab the cooler, suddenly finding myself lying on the pavement on top of the cooler and a lot of ice. Luckily the bottle isn't broken, but my elbow hurts and there is dirt on my jeans.

Thomas helps me back to my feet. He holds me. We kiss. At first gently on the mouth. Then a long French kiss.

"That tastes good. You're so lovely, Matilde!" he says.

We're still standing closely with our arms wrapped around each other.

"I fell. I'm not used to these heels."

"Obviously not. It's a question of getting used to them. Like everyting else. But please don't return them. They're so much you. Please sit down. I'll get us some more wine."

Thomas helps me back to my chair. I watch the lake and the city lights while Thomas is getting the wine. Maybe it's not just the high heels. I do feel a little light-headed. Maybe it's the cigarette? Can they make you dizzy? And I must have been drinking quite a bit of wine. Is Thomas buying our second or third bottle? The taste in my mouth is still bitter and chemical. Actually I need more wine to wash it away.

Luckily Thomas is back with another ice cold bottle of Riesling. He fills our glasses, moving his chair next to mine. We are holding each other's hands while talking about our days and our lives.

After about half an hour Thomas picks up the Marlboro pack:

"You have to try another one," he says, smiling.

"Do I?"

"Yes. It looks so awesome when you hold the cigarette."

With a shrug I take another cigarette from the pack that Thomas is handing me very persistently. This time it's easier to get out. I try out various finger positions.

"You could also put it behind your ear," Thomas suggests.

"Behind my ear?"

"Yes. Look."

He takes the cigarette from my fingers and places it behind my left ear. It seems to be sitting there quite firmly. He takes out the rubber band from my ponytail and pulls my hair across the ear.

"This is a storage. So you don't have to bring your handbag when you want to smoke. There's room for another one behind the other ear. And they're invisible behind your hair."

"That's practical," I laugh with upturned eyes while taking the cigarette off my ear. Thomas is holding the lighter flame in front of my face. I look into his eyes while taking the cigarette between my lips and its tip to the fire. This time I avoid taking in too much smoke, blowing it out immediately.

"I really don't know how to inhale," I almost apologize.

Thomas leans forward, kissing me gently on the mouth.

"You're so good at it. You're going to learn it," he says and wraps his arms around me. We kiss again. A long French kiss. I'm holding the burning cigarette in my left hand, trying to move it to the right in order to butt it out in the ashtray on the table. Thomas detects that something is going on and pulls away from me.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I just want to put this out so that we can kiss," I say holdning up the cigarette.

"I'd like to kiss you while you're smoking," he says.

I take the cigarette to my mouth looking inquiringly at Thomas. He nods. I take a drag and by accident I blow the smoke into his face.

"I'm sorry!" I say, waving away the smoke with my hand.

"Don't be sorry. It was so good," Thomas laughs, "Do it again!"

I repeat it. Take a small drag and immediately blow it into Thomas' face. He is smiling joyfully.

"I don't even know how to hold it. It just feels so awkward," I say.

"You're doing fine, Matilde. Just keep doing it."

"But I can't take the smoke into my lungs without coughing."

"You're on your way. Try inhaling once more. Take a small drag, keep the smoke in your mouth for a second, and then inhale deeply to make it all spread inside your lungs."

"Thanks for the instruction manual. How do you know?"

"I've done this a lot."

"You've been a heavy smoker."

"No. I never smoked."

"What do you mean."

"What I'm saying. I taught several women to smoke in an incredibly sexy way."

I take another hit from the cigarette, teasingly blowing smoke onto his happy face.

It's quiet for a moment. Then I make a quick decision and follow his directions. I take a small drag on my cigarette, wait a second with the smoke inside my mouth, then inhaling it into my lungs without any coughing at all. It's like my whole body is contraacting and every bit of air is disappearing from my chest. I cough and the smoke is blown out in small coughs that do not continue for long.

I take a large gulp of wine, butting out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray.

"Phew," I say, shaking my head.

I have this strange, burning sensation in my chest. Yet the bitter taste in my mouth is less penetrating now.

Thomas leans forward with a broad smile, giving me a long French kiss.

"You taste wonderfully, Matilde!"

"You think so? To me it tastes like... bitter after smoking. Or that was more after the first. Now the taste is a little less penetrating..."

"Maybe you're getting used to being a smoker."

"A smoker? I'm not a smoker."

"So what's that?" he asks teasingly, pointing to the two butts in the ashtray.

"Okay then... Anyway, the second cigarette didn't taste as bad as the first. But I've got to get used to taking the smoke into my lungs."

"Yes. Of course."

We continue to talk about our lives. It's getting empty behind the windows of the wine bar. Kate waves in our direction as she is leaving with her friends. A waitress starts folding tables and chairs on the pavement beside us.

"We're closing," she says.

"Five minutes," says Thomas.

"Okay," responds the waitress and disappears into the bar with a couple of folding chairs.

I make a quick decision and reach for the cigarette pack.

"You know what? I'll try another one before we leave."

I pick a cigarette from the pack. Thomas gives me a light while watching med with a fascinated smile.

I blow out the first smoke immediately. For a while I hold the smoking cigarette between my fingers. Then, maintaining eye contact with a very attentive Thomas, I determinedly suck in a large mouthful of smoke, wait a moment and inhale it deeply into my lungs. It burns inside me and I battle with the sensation of not being able to breathe before I - a bit too fast perhaps - exhale without coughing.

"Yes! I did it!" I celebrate as the last smoke has left my body.

"That's so awesome, Matilde."

"I'll try again," I say, inhaling again. This time around I succeed in keeping the smoke in my lungs a little longer before exhaling.

"I think I've got the technique in place now."

"Yes. Definitely. You've learned to smoke beautifully."

I put the palm of my hand on my chest.

"There is like... a slight pressure here."

"Okay?"

"Nothing unpleasant. Just a new and different feeling."

"You still think it tastes bad?"

"Wait. Let me taste..."

I suck in a large mouthful of smoke, inhaling it into my lungs. After a while I slowly exhale.

"Well... I don't think it's as bad as I did an hour ago. It's like... a new taste. Not that it's unpleasant. But like... different."

Thomas leans forward to give me a long French kiss. He seems happy.

When I butt out the cigarette after inhaling the rest of it down to the filter, the waitress is ready to clean and remove our table. Thomas puts my Nikes and socks into the shoebox, throwing it into the Magasin shopping bag. We get up and say goodnight to the waitress who has by now become mildly impatient.

"Remember these," says Thomas as I have taken the handbag over my shoulder. He hands me the Marlboro pack and the lighter.

"Oh, yes," I reply and throw them into the bag.

Maybe I've been standing up too fast. Anyway, I feel dizzy.

"Wait a sec!" I say and lean onto the table.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. Just a little dizzyness."

"You're not ill, are you?"

"No, no. Maybe it's just a question of getting used to seeing everything from up here on the high heels."

Thomas puts his arm around my shoulder. It feels safe and nice. Together we walk on the uneven gravel on the bank of the lake. Quite a challenge when you're not used to stilettos.

Suddenly I feel an urge to vomit. I manage to lean over the water, unfortunately puking on Thomas' expensive suit jacket. Thomas holds me back to prevent me from falling into the water while I finish my business and spit a couple of times. My spit tastes of puke and cigarette smoke.

Thomas helps me to a bench where we sit for a while holding hands.

"I'm sorry," I say, demonstrating the embarrassing puke stains on his expeensive jacket.

"Doesn't matter. I'll take it to the dry cleaner's."

"All of a sudden I just got so dizzy. I don't think smoking is good for me, Thomas."

"Nonsense. You've had three light cigarettes. That's nothing. At the same time you've drunk about two bottles of wine."

"I have?"

"Yeah. I guess so. You really can hold your liquor, Matilde," he smiles.

"Okay. I guess I needed something to wash down the smoke."

"Yes. And you are in your heels. It's all a question of getting used to it."

He squeezes my hand and we kiss briefly as I'm keeping my mouth closed, seriously worried about my breath. Then we get up, slowly walking back to the metro at Trianglen. We stop at a convenience store to buy chewing gum. It helps a bit against the taste in my mouth.

"Your place or mine?" Thomas asks as we stand at the top of the metro stairwell.

I shake my head.

"Thomas. This has been a fantastic evening. But I need to get home, brush my teeth and get straight to bed. Sorry."

"I understand. I hope to see you soon."

"Yes! We must."

"Au revoir, lovely Matilde," says Thomas wrapping his arms around me. We exchange a French kiss. I pull away a bit.

"Do I taste of puke?"

"You taste amazing, Matilde," says Thomas, pulling me close again. We kiss deeply for a long time before Thomas lets go of me saying:

"Goodnight!"

"Goodnight," I smile, waving a bit, while Thomas vanishes towards the Trianglen Square. Ten meters away he turns around and sends me a kiss through the air. I return the kiss. Then he is gone.

I lean heavily on the railing when carefully stepping down the metro stairs in my heels. Halfway down I sit to take them off. I look for the bag with my Nikes, but Thomas seems to have kept that. And I still have his puke stained jacket over my shoulders.

I continue barefoot, the stilettos showing out of my bag, onwards toward the metro train. I get a much needed seat and rub my sore feet on the short train ride to Nørrebros Runddel.

From Nørrebros Runddel Station I'm soon at home on the fifth floor in Jægersborggade. I thoroughly brush my teeth and the taste of puke almost goes away. The wellknown taste of toothpaste is mixed with a bitter cigarette aftertaste which stays in my mouth after I'm done. I fall onto my bed wearing only my panties and my black top. I think of how much I'm looking forward to seeing Thomas again before I fall into a deep sleep with a broad smile on my newly kissed lips.

2.

Saturday

At 9:45 I wake up with a hammering headache. My body smells of tobacco smoke and my throat is filled with slime and a bitter, chemical aftertaste of cigarettes.

I go to the bathroom to pee, hawk slime into the sink and brush my teeth thouroughly and for a long time. I take two Panodil pills from the shelf, have an extended shower and dry myself with my bathrobe. I walk through the apartment and open the doors to my small balcony. It's really warm outside. I look up and down the street where a busy city life is playing out.

I have a bowl of yoghurt with granola and check the news on my phone. In the hallway I find my red jeans, Thomas' black suit jacket with my puke and my new sandals with extremely high heels. It would be nice of me to get the jacket to a dry cleaner's before our next date. On the phone I find a dry cleaner's. I put on a white strap dress with a black butterfly pattern, throw a good book into the handbag, and on the way out of the apartment in my Birkenstock sandals, I pick up the heels and add them to the contents of my roomy handbag. Now that I will no longer be able to return them I might as well learn to walk in them. Preferably at a location where I'm unlikely to encounter anybody I know.

The metro train takes me to Copenhagen Central where I find the dry cleaner's who promises to have the jacket ready by Monday afternoon. I consider my options of finding af good spot to pratice elegant moves in heels and head toward the local S-train platform from where the first train happens to be heading for Frederikssund.

On the train I change footwear and put the Birkenstocks into the full bag. On my phone I study some very useful Youtube how-to videos on walking in heels. Suddenly we're past Ballerup, and I realize that my best chance of finding af cafe with a sandwich will probably be Frederikssund. Which furthermore has the advantage of being a town where I know absolutely noone which will enable me to look ridiculous without any problems when stumbling around on eight centimeters of stilettos.

My phone vibrates. A text from "Tinder-Thomas". I smile.

"Thanks for an amazing evening," he texts - followed by a heart emoji. "I hope you got home alright. Longing to see you. Doing anything on Monday night? Kisses from Heathrow, Thomas".

"Heathrow"? Is that guy already in London? He seems to get around.

I text him back:

"Likewise." Heart emoji. "I have no plans for Monday night. Would like to see you. Looking forward. Kisses from the S-train. PS: What are you doing in Heathrow?"

A minute is passing. Then there's a new text:

"Work. Boring. Let's meet at 7 above the stairs at Trianglen where we parted. I'll buy you dinner. Kisses!"

I send him another heart in return and correct his name to simply "Thomas" on my phone. When the train stops in Frederikssund I have a look at the town map on my phone. Then I walk, slowly and eight centimeters taller than usual, toward the local pedestrian street, trying to practice what the Youtube videos preached. Slowly putting down one foot in front of the other, heels first, I find a drugstore with almost no customers and choose a crimson nail polish, a bottle of nail polish remover and some cotton balls.

"Could we tempt you with a matching lipstick?" the smiling woman behind the counter asks. I take it and proceed with my stiff, slow walk to find a cafe which turns out to be as empty as the drugstore. I need to sit down. And to eat.

I ask the young guy behind the bar for a warm chicken sandwich and a club soda with a twist of lemon, searching through my bag to find my purse. I put the Birkenstocks on the barstool next to me. My book, my phone and the pack of Marlboro Lights from yesterday all end up on the counter before I manage to find my credit card.

"Where would you like to sit?" the guy inquires.

My glance wanders around the practically empty cafe. I would be easy to find, no matter where I chose to sit.

"Over there in the corner," I reply, pointing with my finger.

"We also have a courtyard where you can smoke."

I hesitate for a couple of seconds.

"Yeah. You know what? I'm going to sit outside in the sunshine."

"I'll bring your sandwich in a moment."

After pouring my stuff back into the bag I carry my club soda outside. In the courtyard I find a sunny spot. I sit down, putting book, phone, nail polish, remover, cotton balls and lipstick next to the ashtray. I place the Marlboros on the table and take off the heels. Ah!

"Do you mind if I paint my nails here?" I ask the young guy as he is bringing my sandwich.

"No, that's okay. You won't bother anyone here."

I eat my sandwich, drinking my club soda. The headache is gone and I enter the cafe, barefoot, to order a large latte. When the guy serves it I have put my right foot on a chair getting ready to paint the toenails. The red nail polish soon lights up all five toes. I look at the result with satisfaction, then fishing the fourth Marlboro from the pack and lighting it.

I just blow out the first couple of drags, but I have decided to purposefully practice inhaling the way Thomas likes so much. The fourth time I put the cigarette between my lips I suck a large portion of smoke, keeping it in my mouth for one or two seconds. Then I inhale it slowly into my lungs. A burning sensation is spreading in my entire chest. Then I exhale. I succeed without coughing.

I drink a sip of latte. It doesn't taste like it used to. I've always taken milk in my coffee, but somehow milk doesn't go along with cigarettes. I inspect my red toenails which seem dry by now and get up to order an espresso instead. In the door frame I come to think of the cigarette in my hand. I walk just past the doorstep holding my cigarette in open air, managing to get the guy's attention and order an espresso.

"Coming up," he smiles from behind the bar.

The guy serves the espresso and it turns out to go along nicely with the rest of my Marlboro Light which I finish proudly inhaling every drag into my lungs.

I paint the nails of my left foot, careful not to spill. While my left foot is drying up I'm surfing the net on my phone. I empty the espresso cup and absentmindedly reach for the Marlboros. I find myself with a cigarette between my fingers without actually having decided to smoke it. I place it between my lips and light it. I inhale and exhale while reading on my phone. It works.

I put the phone away, embarking on the nails of my left hand. I put the cigarette in the ashtray where it's smoking itself while I concentrate on my little finger. I experiment by holding the cigarette in my mouth while painting my nails, trying out various forms of exhaling. Smoke gets in my eyes and I put the cigarette back to the ashtray, picking it up for a drag now and then.

The nails of my right hand are more of a challenge as they have to be painted using my left. But I succeed and reward myself with today's third cigarette as the nails dry up.

I throw my stuff back into my bag, get back into my heels and go to the toilet to inaugurate my new lipstick. I pay at the counter and wish the young guy a nice weekend. In the pedestrian street things are even more dead than before I entered the cafe.

Distractedly I walk from shop window to shop window. Many of the shops are closed for the weekend by now. 50 meters from the cafe there is a tattoo parlour in a basement. I look at the photos of tattooed bodies in the window before walking down the steps.