{"id":25772,"date":"2026-04-23T15:50:00","date_gmt":"2026-04-23T13:50:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/en\/?post_type=stsp_text&p=25772"},"modified":"2026-04-23T19:18:52","modified_gmt":"2026-04-23T17:18:52","slug":"tap-water","status":"publish","type":"stsp_text","link":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/en\/text\/tap-water\/","title":{"rendered":"TAP WATER"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I found the bag one Friday morning, tucked under my coat. It was a man’s purse. Not a tote \u2014 that could have been charming \u2014 but some kind of a leather mini-briefcase, the type favored by middle managers and suburban dads who secretly dream of becoming art dealers. Sitting there on the hanger, it looked both too new and too out of place. My first thought was, Whose dad<\/em> forgot his things here? My second was, This is not my dad\u2019s aesthetic.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I opened it cautiously, curiously. Inside, I found what can only be described as the Advent Calendar of Male Mystery:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Day One: <\/strong>A passport picture. Suspect identified. A man\u2019s face stared up at me from the bag as if to say, Yes, I belong here now<\/em>, as if my hallway had become the world\u2019s most confusing lost-and-found desk. It seemed to wink at me, daring me to unpack the rest of the contents. So, I did.
Day Two: <\/strong>A debt repayment letter from the Arbeitsamt for 9,000 euros \u2014 because nothing says \u201celigible bachelor\u201d like owing the Job Center.
Day Three:<\/strong> A Kinder\u00adgeld<\/em> form. Hope for the future, or evidence of the past? The line between \u201chas potential\u201d and \u201chas dependents\u201d was suddenly very thin.
Days Four and Five:<\/strong> Three medical referrals \u2014 one for a dermatologist , one for a chiropractor, and one for a completely different man<\/em>. Who was this mysterious other patient? Was he running a side business in health insurance fraud? Or \u2014 the truly pressing question \u2014 were they\u2026 a couple? The third referral, for the mysterious stranger, was for the treatment of excessive flatulence, which somehow made me imagine an entire life of awkward elevator rides and muffled apologies.
 Day Six:<\/strong> Four expired condoms, symbols of either hope or carelessness, depending on your level of optimism.
Day Seven:<\/strong> A lighter, finally, the only thing in the bag that still worked \u2014 because God himself needed a smoke after creating this chaos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Somehow, the bag had been lying hidden under my coat, a discovery set of private embarrassments from the man I\u2019d briefly dated \u2014 delivered with impeccable bad taste and timing, like a Mahnung<\/em>: exactly one week after our breakup. I was tempted to send him a picture of the bag with the caption Should I hex it?<\/em> But that would have been too generous. Words are magic spells, too, and he didn\u2019t deserve another from me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Three weeks earlier<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My sister and I sit on opposite chairs in the fertility clinic, facing Dr. Schwarze \u2014 a woman with large blue eyes and a smile that looks practiced enough to conceal both pity and judgment, like someone trying to sound sympathetic while delivering a tax audit. She studies my chart, then looks up, beaming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour AMH is very high for your age,\u201d she says brightly. \u201cWe could extract quite a large sample of your eggs!\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d she adds, \u201cthe German state only supports fertility treatment if you\u2019re married \u2014 and only to the father of the child. Otherwise, you\u2019ll need to cover everything yourself.\u201d I blink, unsure whether to feel lucky or cursed \u2014 as if I\u2019ve just won the lottery and now must pay luxury tax for being single. Apparently, reproduction is a public concern in Germany only when sanctified by heteronormativity. Dr. Schwarze continues, her voice sliding into the rhythm of a sales pitch. \u201cIf we start your first cycle this month, we can get excellent results. We have special packages\u2026\u201d. My sister leans toward me and whispers in Polish, \u201cShe sounds like a sycophantic snake from an Multi-Level Marketing scheme, only far sadder.\u201d I bite my lip to keep from laughing, my eyes still fixed on Dr. Schwarze\u2019s cheerful face, who goes through the odds, the hormones, the costs \u2014 numbers that rise like a tide until I can\u2019t breathe. Then, with a sudden drop in tone, she says gravely, \u201cBut you have no one to simply get pregnant with, do you?\u201d And before I can answer, she adds, with the wild enthusiasm of someone who truly believes she controls the universe\u2019s dating app, \u201cMaybe you\u2019ll meet Mr. Right \u2014 tonight!\u201d My sister\u2019s expression freezes mid-snort, and. I close the folder in front of me, smiling just enough to sound civil. \u201cI don\u2019t need to meet anyone, Dr Schwarze. \u201cI just need to make more money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Earlier, in the crowded waiting room, I screeched in hyper-sensory agitation over the children\u2019s shrieks, asking my sister if that meant I would be a terrible mother. \u201cNo, Sasja,\u201d she said. \u201cNobody likes other people\u2019s children anyway\u2014and if you\u2019re unlucky, yours will be the one giving everyone else anxiety, perpetually ruined dinners, and therapy bills. Consider that your starter kit to parenthood.\u201d Unlike my sister, a paragon of fertility with three kids, who married a Swiss man with a trust fund at 23, I had spent my life writing three books that no one reads. I had elegantly wasted my prime fertility years and avoided the whole child issue. Then I turned thirty-nine and watched all my younger friends dive into the frenzy of egg freezing. \u201cSocial freezing\u201d\u2014 what a ridiculous term. It sounded planwirtschaftlich<\/em>, not humanist at all. Yet, after publishing several books with limited shelf life, my friends\u2019 experiences left me wondering if I should attempt something longer-term: a child. Money was the issue. \u201cI don\u2019t want to be one of those single mothers on welfare,\u201d I told my sister. She peeked at my spreadsheet of fertility costs and said, \u201cSasja, if you want a kid, make sure it brings its own fortune, accountant, and life coach. Otherwise, it\u2019s just an incredibly expensive WG with crying tenants.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Questioning whether I truly wanted children, interrogating every moral, etiological, Darwinian, and financial argument, and wondering why I should pay such a high price for something people produce every day in fields and ditches without thinking\u2014I prepared for my reading that night at a shabby bar called Tap Water<\/em>. There, I read an essay about my ex, whom I had met at that very bar many years before, and how life had separated us. It was one of those sad missed connections imposed by the Pandemic. And, if it hadn’t been for the lockdowns and for us being stranded on different continents, I am tempted to think this would have been the love of my life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That same night, a man approached me after my reading. He had listened with genuine curiosity, eyes as wide as saucers, laughing in all the right places, dropping small, clever remarks like he\u2019d been practicing on unsuspecting strangers for years. He smelled like someone who actually showered\u2014which put him far ahead of many Berliners\u2014but was simultaneously coated in cat hair. You win some, you lose some. At least you could say he was a friend of pussy, and as a cat lover myself, I decided fine\u2014I\u2019ll give it a try. And, for the first couple of dates, I found him charming: He asked about my writing, made me laugh, and I felt like I could relax and just enjoy the evenings. But slowly, little things began to feel uncanny. He borrowed phrases from the former lover in my essay. He mimicked small gestures from the original story\u2014pouring coffee a certain way, adjusting the sugar just so, making breakfast in identical motions, calling me the same endearing names. At first, it was amusing; I felt a strange warmth at seeing echoes of someone I had once loved. But the more it happened, the more it had an artificial finish, like watching a Seinfeld rerun with David Puddy in the main role. By the second week, he had become involved in my life in ways that made my pulse race with both delight and alarm. He asked serious questions about my family, my past relationships, even my hopes for the future\u2014he wanted to know all of me, as if he were preparing a dossier. It was this intensity, and his question about wanting kids, that made me cautiously bring up IVF, testing whether his earnestness extended to real-life complications. He instantly jumped with the promise to support me, before even asking what it entailed, like someone volunteering for a clinical trial and insisting they knew the outcome. I felt caught somewhere between nostalgia, curiosity, and disbelief, still spellbound enough to continue, yet noticing the cracks. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dating is supposed to be mysterious\u2014chemistry, attraction, one or two inside jokes\u2014but sometimes, dating throws you a curveball\u2026in the shape of a grown man asking if you\u2019ve ever used menstrual blood to bind someone to you.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yes, I am not exaggerating. Two weeks into what could generously be called \u201cdating,\u201d I found myself navigating a dinner that felt like a cross between a medieval witch trial and an episode of Black Mirror<\/em>. He insisted I answer yes or no\u2014no maybes allowed\u2014because apparently, honesty in witchcraft is the cornerstone of a healthy relationship. Spoiler alert: it\u2019s not. He then relayed, in painstaking detail, stories about exes who tried to keep him near with blood spilled in his food, professional witches, online spell marketplaces, and how he planned to sell Chat GPT-crafted magic spells to elderly German women and Russians on Etsy. He even asked for my advice on platform strategy, despite having no respect for the very field he wanted to monetize. Somewhere in there, he asserted that the world is too chaotic because people aren\u2019t regulated enough by governments and\u2026 they don\u2019t read the Bible\u2014an insight I\u2019ll treasure forever, lodged somewhere between the spell-business plan, our shared plate of Sushi, and the morality lecture on his ex\u2019s tampon. I smiled in disbelief, refusing to take this inquisition\u2019s hostility deluge seriously, pretending not to notice how his obsession with control extended to areas of my body I\u2019d generally only trust my gynaecologist with. So, I took another bite and decided to channel my inner Antichrist: That sounds complicated,<\/em> I said. Have you considered seeing a\u2026 conspiracy therapist?<\/em>  And just like that, this was our last supper: he dumped me, before even the bill came, claiming he didn\u2019t feel a spark anymore\u2014as if the very spell work he might have practiced on my trust had turned against him. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was visibly upset by this short, bizarre encounter. Was it the loss of something I hadn\u2019t thought I needed, the false promises of support from someone who never met me at eye level, or the absurdity of a man who saw menstruation as a red flag bigger than the USSR, rather than just kinky? Probably all of it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, I gathered my friends to debrief. One mentioned a guy she met during the Berlin Porn Festival, who asked if she had considered drinking blood; another had experimented with monthly facials using her own menstrual discharge, \u00e0 la Kim Kardashian\u2019s vampire treatments. \u201cDoes it work?\u201d I asked. \u201cBotox-free, baby,\u201d she replied. A third prompted, \u201cYou could, at the very least, mail him his purse sprayed in some animal\u2019s blood. \u201cRemember, my boyfriend is a chef,\u201d she winked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My friends helped me laugh, but underneath, something ached. Maybe it wasn\u2019t about him or the superstitions at all, but about how easily people claim authority over women\u2019s choices\u2014as if our bodies are a question others have the right to answer. It\u2019s strange how ordinary that feels:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The doctor, joking that I might still get pregnant \u201cthe natural way,\u201d if only I had met a man that night. My catty sister, glib about my financial worries while comfortably raising three children with a wealthy husband, turning my doubts into a punchline: \u201cOh, you can just work more, it\u2019s easy!\u201d And this man, pledging unwavering support through decisions I hadn\u2019t asked him to weigh in on\u2014such as egg freezing, a month-long medical procedure requiring no sex, extreme tenderness, and emotional stability\u2014only to vanish the moment I didn\u2019t treat his obsession with menstrual magic as sacred. Everyone had an opinion; no one ever asked what I truly wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then, as if to prove a point, the universe handed me a case study: his forgotten bag, filled with the sort of emotional baggage men usually leave for women to unpack. It felt like divine intervention, or at least retroactive performance art.  Maybe the bag was his horcrux<\/em>. Maybe it was a ritual offering. Maybe life just wanted me to open a literal Pandora\u2019s pouch of expired prophylactics and karmic debt. Either way, this bag wanted to cover all aspects of life: sex, health, money, and parenthood. It was the perfect Chekhov\u2019s gun, a Saturn return coming to show how each item mirrored a moment in those two weeks: the debt letter for emotional unpredictability, the expired condoms for sexual tension that never landed, the bureaucratic notice about children I didn\u2019t even know he had, and the lighter\u2026 well, for me to light up sage and clear the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dating in your thirties, without the swiping and ghosting, is supposed to feel like an adult, not occult <\/em>adventure. Instead, I experienced what I now refer to as the witchcraft phase<\/em>: personal boundaries, reproductive health, and magical ethics colliding spectacularly, becoming a magnified, absurdist metaphor for consent, vulnerability, and the hazards of someone else trying to script your life. The man in question claimed at the end that he was trying to convince himself to like me, which is fascinating because society has conditioned men to show interest aggressively\u2014but also to feel entitled to dictate terms of affection, morality, and commitment, even when the emotional navigation skills are, shall we say, under construction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And if you\u2019re wondering, he did resurface, with the kind of apology that could win awards for tone, if not content. He wrote he wished he had been a better man \u2014 for me and for himself \u2014 as if we were part of the same performance-improvement plan. I read it twice and wondered if this was a prank orchestrated by the ghosts of my female ancestors to remind me that I am not, in fact, obligated to spiritually rehabilitate the manosphere. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, I kept the bag, not as evidence, but as prophecy: Maybe I\u2019ll do a \u201creturn to sender\u201d spell, to clear out the debris of this short-lived yet remarkable lesson in agency and trust. Or maybe I\u2019ll open a new pocket every full moon, to remind myself that magic doesn\u2019t bind people \u2014 stories do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As for Dr. Schwarze? Maybe I\u2019ll see her again and have my eggs resurrected in a month-long residency to write my life\u2019s next chapter, a baby. Or maybe I won\u2019t: Maybe I\u2019ll just bleed<\/em> the money on an editor for my next book and a trip to Portugal. Either way, something of me will always remain in this world. And isn\u2019t that just, truly, magical?


Disclaimer:
This story is a fictional work. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The views expressed are solely those of the author and do not reflect the position of any organization, entity, or individual. The content should not be interpreted as factual or as an accurate representation of real people or events.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I found the bag one Friday morning, tucked under my coat. It was a man’s purse. Not a tote \u2014 that could have been charming \u2014 but some kind of a leather mini-briefcase, the type favored by middle managers and suburban dads who secretly dream of becoming art dealers. 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