Using the right index finger, I touched the image within the mirror. On the nose, the first time. Then on the dimple in the right cheek. I smiled. The image smiled as well. The finger indicated an incisor which straddled the other. Hmm. Sexy. Next touch: the forehead. I stroked three wrinkles. Wonder when they appeared? Then I discovered a few white hairs. What the hell are these? Why so many? The problems. Yes. I touched the eyes in amazement. Still sparkling blue. God, who's this woman that looks more and more like my mother?
Costi Gălățanu
Between me and the others, we cut out doors. Some of them, we closed a long time ago. Draughty like Ceahlău, monseur, as Vasilică says. Others were shoved in my nose, with or without grounds. Very few, I can count them on my fingers, are still wide open. Between who I was, and who I am, the door is locked. I wish I could open it again, at least from time to time, but I lost the key. There should still be a door somewhere between who I am, and who I shall be. I am looking for it. I hope I don't find it bolted shut.
Florentina Enache
I'm nine years old, I'm on summer vacation, at grandma's. I'm sleeping on the porch, next to her, on a straw mattress, covered with the wool duvet. I'm awake in my ultimate dream. It's stormy; a blustery with angry lightning bolts and mad sprinkles, wets out foreheads. I'm afraid, and I'm not. It'll pass, little one, close your eyes and sleep. Four decades later, I'm still awake in my ultimate dream. Still storming, still with angry lightning bolts, still afraid, and not. Let it pass already; I could sleep a some more. A blustery, little one, it passes. Thank you, I whisper distracted.
(Translated by Diana Georgiana Rădăcineanu / 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.