I can’t even remember if it was one of my brother’s girlfriends or his first flatmate who brought LOVE into our lives.
The thing I clearly recall is that I didn’t like it at first. It was tasteless and kinda kitsch; that kind of gift you really don’t want to receive.
Anyway, it was already there when I moved to the big city, ten years ago and it survived all my college years, moving with us from flat to flat, the perfect metaphor of our late adolescent struggle.
We used to have these crazy parties, once or twice a year. We called them Lemon Parties: the dress code required everybody to wear something yellow to gain entrance and the general goal was to make out as much as possible. Of course, during these nights, LOVE ended up in pieces more than once.
The day after, when the flat looked like a battle field of sticky floor and dirty glasses, I sat down and put the pieces of that broken LOVE together.
And here it is, still, in the house of my supposed adulthood, constantly reminding me I should quit smoking once and for all.