Like We Used To || Manuel Neuer

4

        It might've been homesickness, or even the anxiety of having to roam an entirely foreign country in absolute solitude, but regardless of what it might've been, I am unable to get a proper night's sleep on my first night in Rio. The streetlamps, which were easily identifiable through my villa's transparent curtains, illuminated the room that I had been given, shattering all possibilities I'd had of falling asleep.

I was a notorious sleeper, only able to sleep in soundless, dark environments. Hence, for the majority of the night, I remained on my bed, stiffly eyeing the ceiling in hopes of succumbing into my fatigue. However, my hopes, as they often do, went disregarded.

Now, more than just a several hours later, here I am: outside of my glorious villa, attempting to hail a taxi with Bastian Schweinsteiger's files clutched onto my chest. 

Despite weather forecasts having suggested moderate, early summer weather for the day, callous rays of sunbeams attack my body like millions of hot needles, expediting the trickling of sweat down my body parts, which, to my dismay, is making my clothes stick to my body in sweat.

To be quite frank, I haven't got a clue as to where I am going. All I know is that for the past hour, as I have been waiting on the taxi that I had ushered over the phone, my eyes have been perpetually glazing the address printed in Schweinsteiger's file, which I still haven't got the courage to open. Although my mind is screeching something along the lines of, open the fuck out of that file, dummy. How many other times are you going to crash into Bastian freakin' Schweinsteiger?, my fragile heart is not meddlesome enough to disregard his much needed privacy.

Just as I am heaving out an exhaustedly weary sigh—a predisposition of the blazing sun—an unfamiliar shade of yellow slithers into my vision, eventually occupying the empty roadspace before me. It soon registers on me that this is the long anticipated Brazillian taxi of mine, and I don't have to look twice to be confirmed of the fact that the taxis in Brazil are much livelier in color than those simple whites in Gelsenkirchen. 

But it's whatever, I tell myself as I slide into the car.

"Para onde, senhorita?" the cab driver, who looks of quite my age, queries, fixating his eyes on mine as I make myself formally comfortable in the car. In the process of adjusting my seatbelt, I try to decode his Portuguese words using my Spanish four skills. Eventually, I manage to translate his words—which were a simple "Where to, Miss?"—into the Spanish language that I am familiar with and, afterwards, successfully formulate a coherent response.

"Leve-me para este endereço," I answer, my German accent thickly enunciating each syllable of the Portuguese words. (Translation: Take me to this address.) I briefly flash Schweinsteiger's file to the nameless cab driver before my words draw an end.

As the nameless man obligingly begins to drive, a kind smile materializes on his face. "Tem Alemão?" he questions, his brown eyes transiently meeting mind through the car's front mirror. (Translation: Are you German?")

"Sim," I answer, nodding my head. (Translation: Yes.) "You too?"

"Sim," is the man's simple answer.

A broad—overly excited—grin erupts on my face. "Seriously?"

The man chuckles. "Yeah. But why are you looking like that? Does it shock you?"

I bite my lip, thoroughly examining the man sitting besides me. He has dark, intensely chestnut–like in color, hair, which does, undoubtedly, defy the stereotypical German appearance of blonde hair. The stranger's eyes, in addition, appear to be a deep brown, darker around the husks, surrounded by a deeply tan skin tone, reminding me of the trees back in our meadow in Gelsenkirchen. However, the last thing in the world he looks is German; not at all.