In the house where I had received a schnitzel and a strudel, the boy, together with his sister, was showing me the steps they had learned at dance school, compulsory education in the city of balls. He was counting intently; his lips were pursed. Can you dance, he asks me? I don't know any steps, I say. On the radio they played Lambada, my hips aroused. I take him by the hand, I cover him with my skirt and my hips, I stop him from retreating with a firm palm on his back, guiding his moves. You don't have to count, only to feel, I whisper. On his pear-like face I notice he hasn't counted in a while.
Monica Bologa
I'm leaning on the wall and watching the pairs on the ring, their sensual dance that I don't know. A curly boy invites me to dance. I reject him, saying that I'm not good at that type of moves, that I can only dance ballet. Some girls start laughing at me; one of them says: there's a swan among us. I run outside. The curly boy comes after me. He found me curled near a tree, crying. Can you please show me a ballet move? From the stereo you could hear Dançando lambada-a-a and I was doing pirouettes under the stars.
Iulia Biro
He's sitting on the narrow concrete edge of the cliff with his legs dangling in the air. The water is glowing two metres away from his soles and the smell of slurry and fish can be felt. His soles hurt from dancing so much with the blonde girl. He also has a headache from the amount of drinking they did, it's a wonder how much such a teeny girl can drink. She stayed at the bar. When he left, wasted from the alcohol and frustration, she was dancing Lambada with that cheeky grandpa (he was around 40 years old), his hand on her naked belly, her butt stuck to his fly. You can still hear Lambada now, when the sun rises.
(Translated by Laurențiu-Gabriel Niculae / 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 Ficțiuni Reale.