Conversations In Amsterdam

Conversations In Amsterdam
Artwork: Daphne Buter 

I was in a Pub and I walked to the bar to get a drink. A skinny man who had drank too much started to talk to me.

‘You don’t look happy. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. I am happy,’ I answered a little annoyed.

That man shook his head very slowly, like he didn’t know how to shake it off his neck, and repeated, ‘You lie. You don’t look happy at all. No no no! You don’t look happy at all. You are a beautiful woman but an unhappy one…’

I tried to convince that man he was wrong, but it didn’t work. He kept stalking me, repeating I didn’t look happy. He even offered me his body. It would give me all kinds of magical pleasures, he assured me. I refused, while he was licking my neck.

After one hour of listening to his dizzy tongue in my ear, I had never felt more miserable in my whole life and I said to him, ‘I think you are right, man… I’m not happy at all. You made me feel like shit!’

Then that man gazed at me for a long time, like he had forgotten who I was, and he asked, ‘are you sure you feel that bad? You look incredibly happy to me…’

That’s what I dislike about Dutch Pubs. I understand zilch about the conversations.