Klaus the zealous
As Mr. N and I chatted in the noise of dance music, Klaus came to sit with us, flapping his t-shirt in the chest to cool the heat of the dance floor. He was German but had lived in Paris most of his life, and after working in Germany, Mr. N appointed him as the manager of the Paris office. He was about 40 years old, but his Northern European frame made him look robotic, and the top-bold head with surviving hair on the side and back in a U-shape aged him by ten years. His smile showed his youth in contrast, his brown eyes soft and gentle. He asked me the impression of Europe, and we talked about weather and cultures. European men never miss a chance to chat up to beautiful women, Mr. N told me, seeing Klaus towed away by his team back to the dance floor.
Klaus messaged me when I returned to Japan via office email, and we started messaging each other almost every day. He compiled a long letter about the seven-course meal he had over Christmas and over-capacitated my inbox with the photos from his trip to Iceland.
My yearning desire to escape was heightened every time I came back from the trip to Europe. Klaus’s messages were a string I held on to feel connected to the outside world, and his hyper-zealous writing uplifted my dwindling spirit.
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