ABSTRACT
By nineteen I was married. My Dad said: Well, you can wave goodbye to youth and innocence, and all that's special and unique. My marriage lasted one year, seven months, and twelve days. My husband was a crane-operator with Nagel and Sons. He wasn't a bad sort, and he did have a job. I'd heard about that before I'd heard his name. I did find out his name later though, but what I didn't know was that the sciatica, which'd been bothering him for years, was cancer. We got to know each other in a country restaurant. He drank beer. I drank Weisse mit Schuss. He took me back to his room. His chair was his wardrobe, so I had to sit on the bed. He kneeled at my feet and unbuttoned my blouse.
So this is what paradise is like, I thought to myself, and said: I love you. You don't have to overdo it, he said, but I said it again: I love you. And when we'd slept together he said: No tits, your arse too tight, you look to me like fucking Snow White. I had to laugh . And then he tried to write Snow White on my wet belly. His finger was all yellow from too much smoking. Even now, whenever I hear anyone say Snow White I come over all peculiar . But we wasn't to be happy for long. So as not to lose his job, Max kept on going to work day after day, illness or no illness, but hardly ever bothered to see the doctor . The sodding sciatica was making his life hell.
