Free Forever Yours by Daniel Glattauer, Jamie Bulloch

called after her.
2
    That evening she called upon all the good and wicked television channels to addle her brain with the help of a few glasses of red wine. She didn’t feel up to seeing anyone, not even friends, and having to tell them of the failure she’d pulled off so professionally. She only knew so much and she wanted to keep that to herself. Never again would she test whether she could bear to have a man permanently at her side without really loving him. Never again would she undertake such a humiliating retreat, and she wouldn’t expect anyone else to either.
    At around ten o’clock she was wrenched out of one of those soap series with canned laughter by her pentatonic ringtone. Hannes had written: “May I send you a text message if I’m feeling low?” “Of course, whenever you like,” she wrote back, wracked by a bad conscience and grateful for his understated attempt to relieve his frustration. Then she switched off her phone.
    In the night she woke up several times and made sure that he was not lying beside her. Finally she gave up, turned on all the lights, put on her earphones to drown out any noises from the hallway, soothed her eyes with the first few words of T. C. Boyle’s new book, and waited for the radio alarm to put her out of her misery.
    In the morning she forced herself to keep busy. When she closed the front door behind her – if only she hadn’t turned around! – she caught sight of the plastic bag hanging from the handle, with the inscription: “FOR MY JUDITH”. It contained three yellow roses wrapped in paper, together with the cryptic words “WHAT DO THESE…” and Hannes’s trademark outsized heart. She would have to make it clear to him without delay that he must stop embarrassing her with flowers. Why was he hanging around outside her building anyway?
3
    “You look shocking, Frau Wangermann,” Bianca said in the glow of the newly installed delivery from Liege. “I’m fine, my dear, I just had a bad morning with the make-up,” Judith replied. Bianca was powerless against such a deft response.
    “Frau Wangermann?” From Bianca’s tone she inferred that unpleasant news was on its way. Bianca: “Your boyfriend was here and left this for you. He was like, I’m in a hurry, and I was like, do you want to leave a message, and he was like, oh yes, please tell her that I love her more than anything else in the world. What a sweetie! I wouldn’t mind a man like that some day.” She gave Judith the flowers: three yellow roses and a note with the meaningless message “… AND THESE…”, framed in a big, fat, nightmarish heart.
    She retreated to her office and switched on her mobile to forbid Hannes from sending any more flowers. Eleven new messages. His name eleven times. Eleven messages with the same words. Two-thirteen: “I’m feeling low.” Three-thirteen: “I’m feeling low.” Four-thirteen: “I’m feeling low.” He felt low eleven times, at hourly intervals, precise to the minute, irrespective of whether it was day or night. Another quarter of an hour and he would be feeling low again, she sensed. And just in case she forgot this or pushed it to the back of his mind, he was going to remind her, punctually.
    She dialled his number and got his voicemail. “Hannes, please stop it! Don’t send me any more texts like that! It’s pointless! And no more roses! If I mean anything at all to you, then please respect my decision. Believe me, I’m not feeling great about it either. But this is the way it’s got to be. Please accept that!”
    She had difficulty making it through the rest of the working day. After her call, Hannes stopped texting. Now all she worried about were further rose ambushes. All the way home she was plagued by the anxiety that he might be nearby. Maybe he’d come to meet her halfway. Maybe he’d shoot out from a hidden corner. Maybe he was sneaking up on her. Maybe he was already at her heels.
    A presentiment made her take a detour across