Nancy Bundt
Arriving at our destination, a stone house with a bright red door, we are greeted by glasses of straw-coloured spirits and a warm fire. The man who had run the marathon, dusted his clothes off and walked towards me. I cannot remember his name. Had we even talked? The house has had at least fifty people stream through it in the darkness, and everyone was pairing up in conversation. Was he a friend’s friend? Did he speak English? He walked past me, stopping at the buffet table. Picking up two sandwiches, he smiled and walked past me again to sit in front of the fireplace. I sat down beside him, next to the fire and introduced myself. He handed me a sandwich. It turned out he spoke no English, had slow hands not made for gesturing, and we stayed together in a comfortable, still silence until the band had grown tired and been replaced by another shift.
Terje Rakke
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