Collective singularities

A faintly illuminated living room, crowded with people of all kinds, rock music playing from laptop speakers, skulls and candles, stacks of LPs beside the buffet table, two rock guitars looming from the wall, an old fashioned radio set sitting silently in the corner, shelves decorated with Skat tournament cups, black furniture all over the place and Bloody Mary in tiny plastic beakers. I pour myself a glass of water when dark-girl approaches me from the other side of the room, fighting her way through the vibes of the guests pounding the wooden floor rhythmically. She eyes me up, tilts her head, looks at me in a mysterious way, then notices my self-imposed solitude, and says: you seem different from the crowd.

I'd like to learn snowboarding, says pale-girl. Snowboarding is cool, agrees host-girl, it's as cool as motorbiking, and she points at me, ask al-iksir. I, startled, nod and mutter, I can't snowboard, but motorbiking, yes, it appears enjoyable to me. Gosh, have you actually tried to ride a motorbike, pale-girl enquires. I reply, I do have a license if this is what you ... - but then host-girl interrupts me, turns to me in a slightly drunken manner, lowering her white-painted zombie-face, playfully peering at me, her eyes white and wide open, framed by eyeliner and thick black lashes, and says, if you like motorbiking, you will love snowboarding.