She comes to the beach at dawn, bearing paint brushes and colours. She's carrying a big backpack and a folding chair under her arm. She's looking for some shadow and my son and I are looking for her. She settles and starts painting children's faces. When she's out of customers, she swings in her chair, bored, making it sink deeper and deeper into the sand. Indefatigably sways her hips back and forth until her butt touches the ground. She verifies the mobility of the chair when she takes it out. I can barely remember my son's face without paint on it.
(Translated by Alma Teodora Miron / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Professor Nadina Vişan)
*Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.