He seemed like a nice guy, he had a parallelepiped back with a big base up, but when he started making demands, he started to annoy me. It's raining so hard, let's run in the rain, like two kids and dance, let your shirt stick to your breasts, stuff like that, but I told him clearly that I couldn't, my eyebrows were washing off and it was a lot of money. Then I said I'd scratch him a bit on the south-west back, not there a bit lower and more in front, Ioji girl, I can't, I'm ruining my nails. Holy, what a lousy people.
Titela Durnea
What do you think, if I have feathers on my back, does that mean I'm naive? That's what people have been telling me for as long as I can remember. And they've known me for a while. Let me tell you something I recently discovered. If you look closely, from the profile, it doesn't look like feathers. They're steps. You go up or down as the clock ticks. Or people. And even if there were feathers, so what? I don't think they're chicken feathers, by the look of them. They look like a royal bird. The kind that sings like it's reading the human heart. You're beautiful, you know. Ugh. It's getting late, time to go up.
Oana Brumă
It all started in the rented studio on the 5th floor of Timpuri Noi[1] neighbourhood. He invited me for a fish and I went. I hated fish even then, but I liked him. I was also terrified of the stray dogs that always swarmed around the shady medicine factory I had to pass from the metro. I guess I was in love. I never even remembered the damn code on the intercom. I don't know if he was. He cooked me some pasta, poured me a Rosé and here we are, 12 years and 3 kids later.
[1] Timpuri Noi is translated as New Times.
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.