Competent Friend

By the time Harper arrived in Stuttgart, she had learned two crucial facts about Germany: bread is a national emotion, and the trains apologize more eloquently than most ex-boyfriends. She was an American teaching English, collecting bakery punch cards like rare stamps, and actively not interested in anyone who thought a uniform was a personality.

Enter Leutnant Lukas Adler, Luftwaffe pilot, cheekbones like a blueprint, hair with its own flight clearance.

He glided into the beer garden in a jacket that said he was technically off-duty and practically recruiting. “You are American,” he said, like a discovery. “I can tell from the way you bravely order tap water.”

“I’m conserving for the pretzel,” Harper said. “Also, are you…wearing aviator sunglasses at nine p.m.?”

“They are transitional,” he said. “Like my soul.”

Lukas had a reputation as a player—at least in the German sense, which meant punctual, highly documented flirtation. He was the sort of man who would arrive at your first date with a bike helmet for you, a backup bike helmet in case the first one didn’t meet your standards, and a laminated route plan with emergency cake stops. The other pilots teased him, but only until he produced a bar graph.

Harper was immune. Not oppositional, not coy—just immune. “No thank you,” she would say, and mean it, and also hand him a spare napkin because she was a decent person.

He found this irresistible.

“Allow me to present,” he announced one afternoon at the language school, “a brief presentation titled Reasons We Should Get Coffee.” He unfolded a small projector, because of course he owned a small projector.

Slide one: Competencies.

- I can parallel park.

- I own a reliable umbrella.

- I bake Zimtschnecken with structural integrity.

Slide two: Risk Assessment.

- Low likelihood of awkward silences (I talk at 280 knots).

- Medium likelihood of bakery detours (acceptable).

Slide three: Value Proposition.

- Height sufficient to reach top supermarket shelf items.

- NATO compatibility.

The students clapped. Harper laughed. “Strong fonts,” she said. “Still no.”

“Understood,” he replied, dazzled to be thwarted. “We move to Phase Two: Friendship Orbit.”

Phase Two involved him showing up with spare bike lights “for safety,” a meticulously annotated list of hiking trails with bakeries ranked by crumble coefficient, and the occasional text: Are you aware there is a poetry night in the tram depot? It seems illegal, but they printed a flyer.

Harper, who liked people who showed their work, let him orbit. She learned that pilots have to memorize emergency checklists like spells and that Lukas kept a succulent alive using a spreadsheet called Watering KPIs. He learned that she could make soup out of anything and had a personal feud with the umlaut.

On a rare boastful day, he mentioned a flypast over a public event. “Very low,” he said, measuring with a hand. “But within regulation.”

“That’s the sexiest thing you’ve said,” Harper replied. “The regulation part.”

He brought a flight simulator invite; she said, “I get nauseous watching ceiling fans.” He recalculated. He brought a pie; she approved the latticework, vetoed his flirting, and asked if he would talk to her students about careers. He arrived in a sweater, spoke about aerodynamics and teamwork, and drew tiny planes on the board that would have made an engineer weep. The teens were smitten. Harper was…glad.

Somewhere between a canceled picnic due to “increasing chance of rain localized entirely over our blanket” and helping her carry a wobbly bookshelf, Lukas realized his player settings had quietly reset. He liked being useful. He liked her saying no and trusting him to hear it.

Meanwhile, Harper met Anika at the bookstore—practical boots, a tote bag that said Ask Me About My Filing System. Anika worked in logistics. She adored schedules with a passion bordering on operatic.

“You two should meet,” Harper said to Lukas later. “If only to argue about calendars.”

They met. They argued about calendars like it was tango. Three weeks later, Lukas sent a text: Coffee with Anika achieved. Consent forms signed. She prefers Helvetica.

Harper sent back a thumbs-up and a photo of the pretzel she was conquering.

Months later, the three of them played Settlers of Catan in the beer garden. Lukas traded wheat with alarming charm. Anika tracked everyone’s longest road. Harper rolled the kind of dice that break empires and spilled her coffee. Lukas, without flourish, had napkins in her hand in under five seconds.

“Player,” Harper said, grinning.

“Phase Three,” he replied, equally pleased. “Competent Friend.”

“For the record,” she said, “that’s the only phase I ever wanted.”

He saluted with a pretzel. The trains apologized on cue. Somewhere, a spreadsheet updated itself to say: Mission accomplished, in exactly the way nobody planned.

Julia O’Hara 2025

THANK YOU for reading my work. I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or Coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Peru and heading to Chile in a few days and from there, who knows? I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

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