There’s a light on in the Laundry room. I flit over, I want to see anyone. As I stand in the Lift, comes Fatima out of the door. Fatima is my neighbor from the third floor. I like you, we always talk when we see each other. She comes from Bosnia and works as a beautician. She is a little over 60, has bleached hair, dark tattooed eyebrows and is always complimenting me, asking me how is the Small to my sister. “He’s soooo sweet,” she says then.
Now she stands in a light blue tunic, white trousers and Slippers with the rhinestones on it in front of me and asks me how I’m doing. “Well, well,” I say to short. “And you?” question I added only out of courtesy. I agree with the thoughts elsewhere, I hear Fatima whispers: “I’m not okay.” I’m not sure whether I asked you at all, but sure that she wants to talk. I’m looking at you. Their eyes are very small. Her gaze expressionless.
“My sister died.” The Lift, I shouted, come on now, and the light shines bright in the hallway. “Oh, no”, at a loss for words I am. You told me the last Time, or maybe second-to-last Time that your sister has cancer. “I’m so sad,” says the woman, who is usually so positive. “When did she die?”, I have a question. “Three days ago.” Cervical and ovarian cancer. The cancer had spread. “I have taken tablets. Otherwise, I can’t stand it.” Now you sleep only. “When is the funeral?” – “Morning,” says Fatima. “But we can’t go.” You will not come to Bosnia. The borders are, there are no more flights. There you have to go in quarantine. They had been at the Embassy.
“she was my favorite sister. We were so,” says Fatima, and crossed their fingers. “Is someone there? In Bosnia?”, I have a question. The oldest sister. Bad it was for her two daughters. “But tomorrow at the funeral?”, I have a question. “No.” One lives in Germany, one in Italy. Also, you can’t at the funeral of her mother. “The elderly,” says Fatima, “do not even want to have true that your mother is.” I tell her that I’m sorry and that I would embrace her. Why don’t I have pressed? This strong woman, who is leaning now in the door frame and on the legs keeps.
“You need to sleep, Fatima, then you are not in pain.” You should now wash. Fatima wash always. Her white pants and blouses. Your work clothes as a beautician. But the business is. “I’m home all day and can only cry,” says Fatima. “Go in the morning for a run, you need to go,” I say. Yes, in the morning you go with your husband on a great round. “Oh, Fatima, I think of you and light now a candle for your sister.” She thanks him and pushes the door latch to the Laundry room. Your Laundry is done.