The culinary pleasure seller waved the sausage in front of him. Are you going to take it or not? Eustache had fallen into a reverie. The woman slapped the sausage on the counter: Hey, are you going to keep me waiting with that sausage in my hand? His eyes wandered over the display, where next to a pile of Pleșcoi sausages was laid the pink delicacy. He asked for two slices. Only that? He waved the two slices absently, which reminded him of Eufrosina, and ran his tongue between them. Also give me some farmer's cheese for an authentic olfactory experience.
Iulia Biro
Finally, he invited her out. For over a year, the girl had been watching him. She often went with her friends to the coffee shop where he worked. Whenever they hear her sighing, the others would whisper in unison: Paaariii. The boy was handsome, no doubt about it: olive skin, dark blue-black hair, and smoldering eyes. Now, walking hand in hand with him in the park, she whispered: You have the most romantic name. It makes me think of Paris, the city of lovers. He didn't have the guts to tell her that his family had named him Parizer[1]. He was about to turn 18 and change his name.
[1] Parizer is the Romanian word for baloney.
Tina Dublea
When I say baloney, I say Dad. Dad smelled like Tarr, that cheap shaving lotion. On him it smelled like luxury. When he came home from work with some pink slices in his bag, I knew we were poor. But honest. That's all he could afford from his salary at Roads and Bridges. Asphalt and baloney. And diesel. Perfume. I haven't eaten it in years. To forget poverty. A cow with hooves. And mustard. From Tecuci. I have no idea how silly I was. Hey, Dad? I love you. Can I be little again? I promise to feel like the best of the best.
(Translated by Teodora Anghelachi / 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.