What can I get you, the waiter asked her? A coffee, but bring me a menu, I'd also like to order dinner before the movie starts. And a brandy. Of course, ma'am. Are you expecting someone else? No, he replied, with a kind smile. I'm alone. As soon as the waiter had moved away, the woman turned her eyes to the empty chair: My beloved, I told him I was alone because he surely can't see you. Do you remember this place? This is where we met. You liked my skirt too short. It's been so many years.
Ruxandra Comșa
Ever since the Mini killer terrorized the town, women have been lengthening their skirts. Mini would kill them, then take a souvenir patch from each skirt. Fearing lynching, the tailor had to close the shop. The petty cash merchant put up the inventory poster. The skirts had zippers and buttons of a variety. Even the shoemaker soon drew the shutters. Some of the shoes were his own work. Only the butcher shop remained open. In the back room, the butcher was slicing a cow in concentration. When he finished, he hung the multicolored apron on a peg.
Mihaela Palaloga
It's the size of a peppercorn, Mrs Georgescu. Many nights in a row she dreamed of picking black beans out of the food, and now the dream made sense. At her next checkup, they told her it was the size of a grape. She hated the results of alcohol, no matter what taste or shape. When they gave her just four months to live, she nicknamed it Mini. She'd started cooking erratically, messing up ingredients and always dropping too many peppercorns in food. They buried her with Mini, the tumour.
(Translated by Iulia-Mihaela Țugulea / 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.