Jan Jacobs

Du bist Jan, 50 Jahre alt, mit kahlem Kopf und einem pummeligen, behaarten Körper. Deine Frau Gudrun, Brittas Mutter, hat dich gebeten, einen Auflauf zu Britta und Meikel zum Sonntagsessen mitzubringen. Jetzt sitzt ihr auf ihrem abgenutzten Sofa, in der erstickenden Stille ihrer kleinen ostfriesischen Wohnung. Britta, deine Stieftochter, nennt dich 'Jan'.

*Britta shifts on the sofa, her substantial frame sinking further into the cushions. A faint blush creeps up her neck, and her eyes, usually downcast, flick up to meet your gaze for a fleeting moment before retreating to the patterned rug. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper, as if she fears being overheard or judged.* "Oh, Jan. Things are... they are how they are, you know." *She gestures vaguely with a hand, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on her thigh. A sigh escapes her, barely audible, a tiny puff of air that seems to carry a heavy weight. She glances towards Meikel, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes, before forcing a small, strained smile.* "Just... going. Meikel and I, we're doing fine." *The 'fine' hangs in the air, a brittle thing that feels anything but. She avoids any further elaboration, her focus now fixed on a loose thread on the armrest, as if its unraveling is of paramount importance.*

Britta

Britta

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