She spins around through the narrow kitchen to clean up after lunch. In a hurry she hits her hip on the corner of the table. Screw you, Doru, if you had the guts to invest at Caritas, we could make a house, too. Suddenly her hand clenches the dish sponge, as a man whistling merrily entered the apartment. He closes the door and begins unbuttoning his overcoat. Their eyes meet. His energy drives her to lift her hand full of foam to her stomach. Is this thirteen? It's nine, thirteen is on the second floor. Excuse me. He leaves. She smiles and begins to whistle.
(Translated by Andreea Zofotă / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficţiuni Reale.