April 22, evening. you have already passed through several streets, dry from the approaching May and already smelling of buds. It was spring, the time of awakening, the time of flowers and life. but you were not going to a celebration of life, but to something exactly the opposite.

probably, it was just an excuse to drink wine. Heinz knew that you wouldn't just be invited over for a couple of drinks—you're either busy or you're following a healthy lifestyle. therefore, he tried to get out of it and came up with the stupidest excuse — the metaphorical "death" of his chair from Kassel, a rather beautiful milk-colored chair with short legs. it was comfortable, and you often liked to sit on it yourself, so you decided to honor the memory of this beautiful piece of furniture.

— Danke Schön, — Heinz said it too sullenly, even dejectedly, as if he was really very upset that his chair had broken, although you were sure that he bought a new one.

He helped you take off your coat and led you into the living room, where the lights were dimmed, only the TV was showing some kind of news, reflecting in elegant glasses of crimson wine. his apartment was small and not very elegant because he didn't earn too much money, but you never complained. The main thing is to be able to eat, sleep and relax if it was a matter of inviting guests. The broken chair was covered with a black cloth and stood in a corner, as if Klinger really wanted to say goodbye to it. He didn't call anyone else, not Rolf, not Gunther, not anyone from the band. the atmosphere was heavy, even serious, as if it were mourning for a real person, and not for a simple chair.

— it's not that I'm very upset, — he mumbled with a touch of longing, straightening the collar of his black shirt (as if he really was in mourning) and adjusting his serious glasses, — but it's served me for a very long time. I even want to write a song, you know. "Komm zu mir, mmm..."