Berlin, Part 4: The Red Thread

When the sushi was expensive and the patriarchy came free

I went back to the same club.

The same one where I kissed Moritz the weekend before. The kiss that made me believe maybe healing could be handed to you by a stranger in a dark room. The kiss that said: if he doesn’t kiss you now, his soul might never forgive him.

The romance movie part of my brain was like, maybe he’ll come find me here again. Maybe he’s been thinking about me too. Maybe he’s been pacing the apartment he shares with his girlfriend, realizing that he has made a grave mistake, and if he just goes to this club at exactly the same time, maybe I’ll be there again, like fate.

Spoiler: he wasn’t.

Instead, I noticed a piercing. Upper ear. Aesthetic. And these days, I’m stupidly into boys with metal in their cartilage.

Enter: The 2.0.

He was German, of course. An engineer just like my ex. Good eye for framing (nowhere) like Frenchie (but better than average). We met on the same dance floor I met Moritz. And something about him reminded me of this boy I’ve been pen-paling with. The one I sometimes pretend is my internet husband.

He asked if I wanted to get a drink, and I said yes because life’s short and techno’s loud. But after we got our drink, instead of dancing, he started talking. I said, “Let’s go outside.” Because I like to talk too. Just not at 126 BPM.

We stepped outside to talk. He was surprisingly warm, easy to talk to. He had one of those auras that makes you feel like you could confess something stupid and he’d just nod and say “same.” So before we even kissed, I said it: I’m going through a divorce. Turns out, so is he.

Wait, what is this? The multiverse of recently divorced Berliners with unprocessed trauma?

Anyway. We kissed. We went back to his. He told me his piercing was fake. But I guess it was fine. By that time, I was more interested in what was going on inside his brain than what was stuck on his ear.

The sex was…fine. Vanilla. Familiar. If Frenchie was an arthouse erotic film, this was like the deleted scene in a Hallmark movie.

But you know what? I didn’t feel like my skin was crawling with regret. I didn’t feel haunted. I felt… okay. And after Frenchie, okay is something. (Thanks, Moritz, for healing me)

He actually had guests over from out of town and he asked if I wanted to say hi to them. Absolutely not. He let me sleep in anyway.

I left around noon. He texted me later to say his friends wanted to meet me. Okay, green flag. Peak Perks of Being a Wallflower energy. I appreciated it.

We made plans for a “real” date. Sushi and a sleepover. He’d researched a vibey sushi spot in his neighborhood. But on the day of the date, I decided I looked too cute so I insisted we go into town.

We I decided on a whim to try one of the hippest sushi places in Berlin. Reservation only kind of vibe. Usually booked out months in advance. I charmed the maitre’d and we got a table.

But of course, I guess he did not budget for a 15€ nigiri night so he insisted on splitting the bill. Which is… fine. I pay for myself all the time. But there’s something about a man saying “the cheapest one” when the waiter asks which gin for his longdrink that made me raise my brow.

Still, the conversation was good. Way better than Train Boy (RIP). And dare I say… it was almost better than Frenchie? No. That’s a lie. No one could make me believe in past lives like Frenchie did. But 2.0 was good. Engaged. Thoughtful. Intellectually stimulating.

He overshared. I recognized it instantly because it’s my favorite coping mechanism. He talked about his ex-wife. His fear of being alone. His obsession with needing company to feel real. And I sat there thinking: Oh no, he’s me, seven years ago.

Yeah, I saw myself in him. 25-year-old me. Afraid of solitude. Desperate for a soft place to land. That’s how I ended up in a marriage with someone who made me shrink. That’s how I convinced myself that “familiar” meant “safe.”

So maybe 2.0 wasn’t a red flag. But he was a red thread. One that tied me to the version of myself I’m trying to leave behind.

We talked about going to an emo festival. He invited me to a Weezer concert with his friends. There were plans. Tentative ones. Another date when he got back from Poland and I from Paris.

We texted almost every day while we were out of town. But the last night before we both returned to Berlin, he did the unforgivable.

He tried to flirt, and it turned into a mansplaining monologue about money in politics.

Which would be fine if I didn’t have, you know, an actual career in political fundraising. But I guess reading three thinkpieces gives a man all the qualifications he needs to explain my own job to me. Wild! That level of condescension reminded me of my ex.

My job was literally making sure the US Senatorial races stayed appropriately funded. But sure, 2.0., tell me more about that article you skimmed.

So I called him out, gracefully. And when he couldn’t let me have that, I said good night.

Will I see him again? Lol no. He left a bad taste in my mouth. And I refuse to entertain this kind of energy.

Because tonight, I didn’t shrink. I didn’t people-please. I didn’t stay quiet while someone intellectually condescended to me with the kind of smugness that sounds like TED Talk masculinity and poorly cited Marxism. I clocked it. I called it. I left.

That’s not just healing. That’s evolution. That’s giving: “I will not be the unpaid moderator of your ego.”

Because here’s the thing: I don’t need more fake piercings. I need someone who isn’t just playing at depth. I want curiosity, yes. But rooted in respect, not performance.