Free Why I Killed My Best Friend by Amanda Michalopoulou

bank, exudes an air of industriousness and order. Music and food are prohibited. Human activity of any sort is avoided. In Europe people at least make themselves at home in their metro, they sing, they sleep in its warmth—after all, no European government cares enough to actually solve the problem of homelessness. We take it a step further: we hide our homeless, we kick them out of the station at Omonia. They mar the Europeanized image of prosperity we’re hoping might attract the business of multinational corporations. Sweep the dirt under the rug! Was the new metro designed for people so exhausted they’ve become zombies? Is this the new Athens we’re so proud of? This imitation of Brussels? Say no to this asphyxiating state ‘security’! Say no to the Olympic spirit being promoted by multinational corporations! Say no to the paternalistic aesthetic regulation of our city’s working class! Bring your guitars and your sandwiches. Come help us give the Athens Metro the color and life we all deserve .”
    â€œDoesn’t it sound a little too hippie at the end?”
    â€œMaria, you’re impossible! It’s already been printed! You’re always wanting to make changes!”
    â€œWhat I certainly don’t want, Kosmas, is for them to pass our movement off as just another wave of inveterate nostalgia. For them to dismiss it as utopian thinking and all that crap.”
    â€œYou want our generation at the demonstration? You’ll have it! I guarantee you, our whole department will be there.”
    â€œKids whose most cherished dream is to get a job at a private television station are going to come down and occupy the metro?”
    â€œDon’t you want them to?”
    â€œI want young people, not bearded hypocrites from the Communist Youth.”
    â€œDon’t be prejudiced, Maria!” Kayo says, draining the last of his wine.
    I throw him a disparaging glance and stand up from the table. Whatever claws I once had are gone.
    I use the tongs to agitate the photograph of Irini in the basin of developer. Her features are fluid, our little phantom of liberty. Her eyes are shining, her long hair is braided into Princess Leia buns on either side of her head, which is at a slight tilt, neck bare, inviting a kiss or a bite. Underneath we’ll print a line from Alice Walker, Resistance is the secret of joy .
    All the darkroom equipment, the red light, the quiet swish of the liquid in the basin do nothing to alter the way that space echoes within me. The moment I open the door I experience a visceral sense of vertigo, a fear of falling and breaking my arm, even though there’s no stool anymore, and no salt, and I no longer believe in proverbs. When I slip into this room and close the door, something African comes and colonizes Exarheia Square. Something that brings me back to the days of crickets and caves and dismembered dolls. “What on earth do you do in there for hours on end?” Kayo sometimes asks. “I breathe in chemicals,” I answer. “I punish myself for being a racist.”
    Now he opens the door just a smidge.
    â€œClose the door, Kayo, are you crazy? You’ll ruin the photographs!”
    He steals into the room and hugs me. His body is still warm from the sheets. Doesn’t he ever tire of this game of incomplete conquest? A hug, a kiss or two on the neck, then each of us to our own bed. It only exacerbates the feeling that’s been bothering me since afternoon, of having suddenly been thrown back into childhood. Asix-year-old girl came and dusted off certain forgotten regions inside me: self-sacrifice, trust, admiration, disappointment, boundless love.
    â€œWant to come and sleep in my bed tonight?”
    I don’t reply. Kayo goes out of the darkroom, and I follow.
    â€œDon’t you think it’s time you found a place of your own?”
    He’s picking at the leftover potato salad, and freezes with the fork in