It was a warm summer afternoon, the windows stood open, and she felt good. They had known each other for two years, both of them were studying economics in Bonn, and they attended the same lectures. She knew he was in love with her.Patrick stroked her back. The book was boring him; he didn’t like Hesse, and he was only reading the poems out loud because that’s what she wanted. He looked at her naked skin, her spine and shoulder blades, running his fingers over them. The Swiss army knife he’d used to cut the apple they’d eaten was lying on the night table. He laid the book aside and picked up the knife. Her eyes half-closed, she watched as he got an erection. She had to laugh—they’d only just had sex. He opened the blade. She lifted her head toward his penis. Then she felt the cut in her back. She screamed, struck his hand away to one side, and leapt to her feet. The knife flew onto the polished hardwood floor. She felt the blood running down her back. He looked at her, bewildered; she slapped him, seized her clothes from the chair, and ran into the bathroom.
