The sun was high in the sky; I padded back into the house to drink a glass of water. I went into Hinnerk’s study, sat at the desk, and took a sheet of typewriter paper from a tall stack in the cupboard on the left-hand side. Then I took one of the perfectly sharpened pencils from the drawer and wrote an invitation to Max: Tonight, at sunset, small reception, festive evening attire. I added this at the end because I didn’t want to be the only one all dressed up. I slipped the piece of paper into a white envelope, wrote Max Ohmstedt on the front, put it in my bag, and went outside. The heat hit me like a slap in the face. I cycled to Max’s and put the letter in his letterbox. Other letters were in there, so he obviously hadn’t emptied it today and was bound to get my message. But what if he already had something planned? Well, then he could just say no. I wasn’t planning to cook a three-course meal. I cycled on to the Edeka shop, bought some red wine and a box of After Eights for old time’s sake.
