If she hadn't rolled around like a fool in the meadow full of colorful daisies, she wouldn't have become the laughing stock of the town and wouldn't have caused such a stir now. But spring kept her waiting and her clumsy walk of the boots she got from her brother tanned her nails enough. And on the meadow was only her and the wind and a fuming desire to feel the stings of the earth on her skin moved her. She had just rolled down to the valley. This way, they found out that Matei emptied out a tank of shit from the cow farm.
Magdalena Aldea
The linen apron wipes itself on her wet palms. Tied behind, it encircled her curvy body just in half. When her right hand was not stirring in the cauldron, the back of her hand wipes the sweat on her forehead. She hardly bent and took it from the pile of eggs gathered in the basket made of sticks. She breaks it carefully in the clay bowl. She laughs. Two coins[1] instead of one. The tip of her fingers over the pleats of the apron. The fabric is about to crack. She caresses the widest of the curbs. She laughs again.
[1] In romanian, the yolk of the egg is sometimes called "coin".
You can't say hell is bad if you like the way it burns. I put my earphones in just as I had entered, but it was hard not to see what was written in chalk on the longish blackboard above the bar. I sat at the only empty table, right next to a grumpy, dead drunk old man. Tell me, he said, while playing with a dull coin, is it them or me, who's the stupid one? The man was echoing the lyrics of the song playing in my ear. He was the only one not shutting his mouth. I thought he was God, but no, he was Bukowski.
(Translated by Andreea Sorana Oltean / 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.