Member-only story
Last Day of Class
Not one of my best days
I’d barely slept that night. Weak as a week’s worth of ill-begotten aims, I was drained emotionally, having suffered panic attacks all day the previous day.
The day would not be hot, certainly not the hottest day of a long summer in Europe, but I prepared myself anyway, mentally at least, to attend my last day of German class at the Volkschoschule.
Dread tapped my bones. Anxiousness had turned its insidious nose up at my plea for calm. But I left my apartment anyhow, rather early I might add, and boarded the train to Ostendstrasse.
It was slow, overcrowded, with blank faces unsurprisingly undisturbed by the train’s frequent stops. The sweating and onset anxiety attacks had curdled, but no matter, it would be OK, I reminded myself.
When I arrived at class, everyone yelled “Dave” when they saw me. They wanted a handshake — all of them did — but I was out of it and didn’t want to shake hands with anyone.
“I’m sick!” I said, unable to spare them the histrionics.
The teacher, Christian, for all his stoicism, appeared unusually bright that day. He was beaming louder than the pastel-colored pullover he’d worn every third class.
