“She wondered all the same how much they really had to say to one another, given that they had only this city in common and a similar way of talking, the same intonation, perhaps she’d just wanted to believe after that third whiskey on the roof garden at the Hilton that he would give her back something she’d lost, a missing taste, an intonation gone flat, that ghostly feeling of home, though she was no longer at home anywhere.”
― Ingeborg Bachmann, Simultan: Erzählungen
