The girls and the boys.

The girls all swear. They swear to god, to their country, they swear to their mothers, grand-mothers and to the Holy Catholic Church. They swear to high heaven. They never, ever would even think of drinking alcohol. All girls are heavily drunk. The boys never swear. The boys are all heavily drunk. The girls wear skirts, that are no skirts anymore. They wear dresses, that have no secrets to hide and shoes higher than anything else I ever saw. The boys wear a sweatshirt and jeans. They wear the same sneakers as I often wear. The girls are vomiting three or four times. The boys do so, too. Both the girls and the boys are very well prepared. The girls tell me a wrong name. The boys don’t tell me a name at all. The girls say their parents are in the US or no longer alive, the boys don’t say a word at all. The girls tell me wrong numbers or mobile numbers of friends. The boys say nothing at all. The girls start to cry. Long streams of tanning sprays run over their cheeks. Long, false eyelashes fall in my hands, by wiping their tears away. The girls save the eyelashes in the back of their mobile phones. The boys don’t cry. They stare at their feet. The girls beg: „Promise! Don’t tell my mother.“ I nod. The girls say: „I am a good girl.“  I nod. I am not a bad influence.“ I nod. The girls say: „Its all group pressure.“ I nod. The boys don’t say a word. I nod. I say, shhh and relax and calm down, and sometimes I sing. Then the girls and the boys are vomiting again. Relax, I say. Everything will be good. The girls cry and the boys remain silent. I take their pulse. Finally, the mothers arrive. The mothers wear Prada bags, Valentino shoes and they drive cars with expensive names. In one hand they hold their mobile, they never put their mobile away, with the other hand, they reach for a boy or a girl. They ask for tissues to take with them and sick- bags because their cars are expensive ones. The girls cry while leaving the room, the boys remain silent, but that’s not new. Are you getting paid for this, ask the mothers with their mobiles in their hand. No, say I and the mothers look at me, astonished and relieved that they won’t meet me again, because when this night is over, I don’t leave in Jimmy Choo’s.

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