It was a crowded Thursday evening, and the train was hosting both commuters on their way home as well as travellers leaving the city for the airport. I opened up my leather handbag with the golden zipper, and there it was, smizing at me. A plastic bottle of Merlot, straight from the supermarket, hardly enough for two glasses of wine. Not that I would share it. Not that I would have a glass. A paper espresso cup would do the job. No opener needed either, my hands were twisting the screw cap.
But then the whole thing twisted.
There was a serious lack of opposing force here.
It didn’t open.
This was rather embarrassing.
I slid the bottle quietly back in my handbag. And there it stayed for a while, still begging for attention.
Demanding to be touched, twisted, consumed.
Transferring onto another train, I arrived at a carriage that was too tired for chatter. The flat landscape,
endlessly black, was passing by in a complimentary silence. After some pondering, I decided it was time
for take two. Zip. Clenching fingers. Twist. Turn. But again, no result.
This time my endeavours didn’t go unnoticed. A man with a short grey beard, neatly dressed in corduroy
trousers, who was sitting opposite me with his granddaughter, keenly followed my attempts. I could feel
his friend on the other side of the aisle also side-eyeing me. I knew they couldn’t resist.1 The silence would
be broken.
“Do you need some help with it?”
“I don’t know, but yeah, you can give it a try”, I shrugged.
Excerpt from Who is she (and what is she to you) by Radna Rumping.
Read full text here.
It was a crowded Thursday evening, and the train was hosting both commuters on their way home as well as travellers leaving the city for the airport. I opened up my leather handbag with the golden zipper, and there it was, smizing at me. A plastic bottle of Merlot, straight from the supermarket, hardly enough for two glasses of wine. Not that I would share it. Not that I would have a glass. A paper espresso cup would do the job. No opener needed either, my hands were twisting the screw cap.
But then the whole thing twisted.
There was a serious lack of opposing force here.
It didn’t open.
This was rather embarrassing.
I slid the bottle quietly back in my handbag. And there it stayed for a while, still begging for attention.
Demanding to be touched, twisted, consumed.
Transferring onto another train, I arrived at a carriage that was too tired for chatter. The flat landscape,
endlessly black, was passing by in a complimentary silence. After some pondering, I decided it was time
for take two. Zip. Clenching fingers. Twist. Turn. But again, no result.
This time my endeavours didn’t go unnoticed. A man with a short grey beard, neatly dressed in corduroy
trousers, who was sitting opposite me with his granddaughter, keenly followed my attempts. I could feel
his friend on the other side of the aisle also side-eyeing me. I knew they couldn’t resist.1 The silence would
be broken.
“Do you need some help with it?”
“I don’t know, but yeah, you can give it a try”, I shrugged.
Excerpt from Who is she (and what is she to you) by Radna Rumping.
Read full text here.
It was a crowded Thursday evening, and the train was hosting both commuters on their way home as well as travellers leaving the city for the airport. I opened up my leather handbag with the golden zipper, and there it was, smizing at me. A plastic bottle of Merlot, straight from the supermarket, hardly enough for two glasses of wine. Not that I would share it. Not that I would have a glass. A paper espresso cup would do the job. No opener needed either, my hands were twisting the screw cap.
But then the whole thing twisted.
There was a serious lack of opposing force here.
It didn’t open.
This was rather embarrassing.
I slid the bottle quietly back in my handbag. And there it stayed for a while, still begging for attention.
Demanding to be touched, twisted, consumed.
Transferring onto another train, I arrived at a carriage that was too tired for chatter. The flat landscape,
endlessly black, was passing by in a complimentary silence. After some pondering, I decided it was time
for take two. Zip. Clenching fingers. Twist. Turn. But again, no result.
This time my endeavours didn’t go unnoticed. A man with a short grey beard, neatly dressed in corduroy
trousers, who was sitting opposite me with his granddaughter, keenly followed my attempts. I could feel
his friend on the other side of the aisle also side-eyeing me. I knew they couldn’t resist.1 The silence would
be broken.
“Do you need some help with it?”
“I don’t know, but yeah, you can give it a try”, I shrugged.
Excerpt from Who is she (and what is she to you) by Radna Rumping.
Read full text here.
It was a crowded Thursday evening, and the train was hosting both commuters on their way home as well as travellers leaving the city for the airport. I opened up my leather handbag with the golden zipper, and there it was, smizing at me. A plastic bottle of Merlot, straight from the supermarket, hardly enough for two glasses of wine. Not that I would share it. Not that I would have a glass. A paper espresso cup would do the job. No opener needed either, my hands were twisting the screw cap.
But then the whole thing twisted.
There was a serious lack of opposing force here.
It didn’t open.
This was rather embarrassing.
I slid the bottle quietly back in my handbag. And there it stayed for a while, still begging for attention.
Demanding to be touched, twisted, consumed.
Transferring onto another train, I arrived at a carriage that was too tired for chatter. The flat landscape,
endlessly black, was passing by in a complimentary silence. After some pondering, I decided it was time
for take two. Zip. Clenching fingers. Twist. Turn. But again, no result.
This time my endeavours didn’t go unnoticed. A man with a short grey beard, neatly dressed in corduroy
trousers, who was sitting opposite me with his granddaughter, keenly followed my attempts. I could feel
his friend on the other side of the aisle also side-eyeing me. I knew they couldn’t resist.1 The silence would
be broken.
“Do you need some help with it?”
“I don’t know, but yeah, you can give it a try”, I shrugged.
Excerpt from Who is she (and what is she to you) by Radna Rumping.
Read full text here.
It was a crowded Thursday evening, and the train was hosting both commuters on their way home as well as travellers leaving the city for the airport. I opened up my leather handbag with the golden zipper, and there it was, smizing at me. A plastic bottle of Merlot, straight from the supermarket, hardly enough for two glasses of wine. Not that I would share it. Not that I would have a glass. A paper espresso cup would do the job. No opener needed either, my hands were twisting the screw cap.
But then the whole thing twisted.
There was a serious lack of opposing force here.
It didn’t open.
This was rather embarrassing.
I slid the bottle quietly back in my handbag. And there it stayed for a while, still begging for attention.
Demanding to be touched, twisted, consumed.
Transferring onto another train, I arrived at a carriage that was too tired for chatter. The flat landscape,
endlessly black, was passing by in a complimentary silence. After some pondering, I decided it was time
for take two. Zip. Clenching fingers. Twist. Turn. But again, no result.
This time my endeavours didn’t go unnoticed. A man with a short grey beard, neatly dressed in corduroy
trousers, who was sitting opposite me with his granddaughter, keenly followed my attempts. I could feel
his friend on the other side of the aisle also side-eyeing me. I knew they couldn’t resist.1 The silence would
be broken.
“Do you need some help with it?”
“I don’t know, but yeah, you can give it a try”, I shrugged.
Excerpt from Who is she (and what is she to you) by Radna Rumping.
Read full text here.
It was a crowded Thursday evening, and the train was hosting both commuters on their way home as well as travellers leaving the city for the airport. I opened up my leather handbag with the golden zipper, and there it was, smizing at me. A plastic bottle of Merlot, straight from the supermarket, hardly enough for two glasses of wine. Not that I would share it. Not that I would have a glass. A paper espresso cup would do the job. No opener needed either, my hands were twisting the screw cap.
But then the whole thing twisted.
There was a serious lack of opposing force here.
It didn’t open.
This was rather embarrassing.
I slid the bottle quietly back in my handbag. And there it stayed for a while, still begging for attention.
Demanding to be touched, twisted, consumed.
Transferring onto another train, I arrived at a carriage that was too tired for chatter. The flat landscape,
endlessly black, was passing by in a complimentary silence. After some pondering, I decided it was time
for take two. Zip. Clenching fingers. Twist. Turn. But again, no result.
This time my endeavours didn’t go unnoticed. A man with a short grey beard, neatly dressed in corduroy
trousers, who was sitting opposite me with his granddaughter, keenly followed my attempts. I could feel
his friend on the other side of the aisle also side-eyeing me. I knew they couldn’t resist.1 The silence would
be broken.
“Do you need some help with it?”
“I don’t know, but yeah, you can give it a try”, I shrugged.
Excerpt from Who is she (and what is she to you) by Radna Rumping.
Read full text here.
