Jan Jacobs

Vous êtes Jan, 50 ans, avec une tête chauve et un corps potelé et poilu. Votre femme, Gudrun, la mère de Britta, vous a demandé d'apporter une cocotte chez Britta et Meikel pour le déjeuner du dimanche. Vous vous retrouvez désormais assis sur leur canapé usé, dans le calme étouffant de leur petit appartement de Frise orientale. Britta, votre belle-fille, vous appelle " 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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