Sunday

My favourite housemate knocks on the door to ask if I want to go to the flea market. I already knew them for a few years when I was able to sublet their room last spring, and since that moment I’ve been living in this house. They are my favourite, because they have good taste and bake gooey orange cake for me.

Today is a day for open shoes. It’s a Sunday. It will be warm soon, and I feel like forcing spring-time to arrive. I pick out a pair of sunglasses and feel it’s time to wear my new second-hand mules for the first time. They have a red flower on my toes. It gives my feet a cartoonish shape.

The flea market at Heemraadsplein has a diverse range of vendors. We ignore the stalls with crystals and children’s books. I make the mistake of testing a fake perfume and from that moment on I smell like a nappy bag that’s supposed to smell like Dior. There are many Dusty Springfield records for sale. I spot a teapot that reminds me of Pettson and Findus. I take it with me, out of nostalgia for the Swedish cartoon and because I drink a lot of green tea. It’s a white ceramic pot with a straight cylindrical shape, a large handle, and a small handle on the round lid.

We walk along Heemraadssingel towards Vierambachtsstraat. It’s difficult to walk on the gravel. We look for a table near the street to watch the passers-by. They seem cheerful, but we cannot tell if they are stylish. Most people are still wearing their winter coats: lots of concealing black water-repellent fabrics.

We walk back home. I make coffee with lots of sugar, and my housemate puts on Björk on the turntable. We sit on the veranda at the back of the house. I notice that I’ve lost the sole of the heel of my right mule and that the wood of that heel is wearing down too. I take off my shoes. The afternoon is over. I give my housemate a kiss on the cheek and walk to my room with my shoes in hand. It annoys me that they’ve broken. A day later, on Monday, I take them to be repaired.