say yes and figure it out later

Her lips barely move when she speaks. I watch them open and stretch, contort into sounds—as if drawing their shapes with my eyes might help to grasp the meaning. The sounds are words I don’t understand. I hear them more than I listen. I just stare and smile and nod. I hope she doesn’t ask me a question.

Do you have any questions for me?

She says this in German. Something moves inside of me, because I know what that means. I Googled ‘top 3 typical interview questions deutsch’ last night, and it came up. She didn’t ask the two other ones, but this one, I know exactly how to answer.

Yes. When can I start?

I practiced it in front of the mirror. When I say this, I’m as sure of it as of the birth mark on my right cheek, and that my hair is black and that moving to Berlin was the right decision. It was the right decision. I tell myself this until I can see it in my reflection too, until it’s true. If this goes well, by the time I walk out the door, the air will be made for my lungs. She raises an eyebrow, her eyes widening. The wrinkles at their corners disappear, ironed flat like the crease in a bedsheet. She says:

How about Wednesday?

I say, I’ll be there.

She smiles and shakes my hand. My palm lingers against hers, my way to say thank you without words, this time. I walk out and breathe in and the air was made for my lungs. I call my mom to tell her about all this air I can breathe now and that I have a new job. I had to convince her taking a gap year to walk around Berlin, to touch this and that, to go here and there was the right decision. I told her I’ll get my Masters after this. We talk about this on the phone, and yet today, neither of us knows I’ll never get it. I’ll never really try. Who knows what happens in ten years. I just got here. Today, Mom says she‘s proud of me, she says she trusts me. She hangs up.

It‘s Tuesday night, already closer to morning. I‘m watching a YouTube video: How to make a cappuccino. I don‘t drink coffee, but I told Denise I know how to make it so she would hire me. When I told her this, I didn’t tell her I never used a coffee machine or served anyone anything. I just said, see you on Wednesday. Wednesday is a disaster. The line is long, it keeps getting longer and it‘s not my fault, but it is. A man orders a latte macchiato. I tell him, Gerne, I tell myself I know how to make it. I overheat the milk, it spills on my feet. He says:

First day?

I suck in the tears, I say yes in my native language without realizing.

Are you French? he says.

I say, How do you know?

He drops a handful of cents in the tip jar before receiving his order, says:

Es wird schon.

I hand him what could be a latte macchiato or anything else. He takes it to the table by the flower lamp. From the counter, I watch him burn his lips on the first sip and drink it anyway. A month later, my hands are extensions of the coffee machine. I want to tell him that he was right, that it‘s the easiest thing now. Ten years later, I have forgotten his face but I still think of him. He’s a dusty, crinkled photograph I keep in my purse but never look at. He never came back and eventually I got another job, and another one, but before, I made the best cappuccino I had ever made to whoever wanted it.