Two Women

Gabriela Marinescu
Alin timidly entered the house, holding the bouquet of roses behind his back. Both loved flowers, so he couldn't go wrong. He decided to hide the delicate necklaces in his inner pocket. Maybe it would have been better to buy perfume. They both used it. But Ana loved sweet scents, while Maria preferred the floral ones. Ana was stylish, Maria was a homemaker. AnaMaria, my beloved wife, should we celebrate at the restaurant or at home today? Dressed in Ana's favorite blouse but in Maria's skirt, the woman kissed her husband.
 
 Diana Cornea
Good day, good day, do you have? We don't. Good day, good day, do you want? No. Pamfil gazed into the distance. What distance? The distant distance. Pamfil was a love child. Flowers of the sky. Whenever a gust of wind blew by, he would shout: gooood dayyy, do you have? And since no flower-mother would reply, not knowing the answer, he would respond himself: weee don't. On thorny days, when he felt like a hedgehog, he would snap his tongue against the roof of his mouth and whistle harshly: good day, do you want? Child from a land of longing? Invariably, Pamfil would hear the crosses in the blind cemetery sighing sorrowfully: no.

Elena Fermuș
She was graceful and slender, like a crescent moon born of saints in the summer sky. Ever since her father had fallen ill, and she had taken his place, no one called her by her name anymore, they called her "the miller's daughter." At dawn, she would throw her body into loose linen clothes, harness the horse to the cart full of grains, and head to the mill. At sunset, when she returned, she would unburden herself, saddle the horse and gallop to the place where she shed her linen and her fears, swimming naked in the lake at the edge of the forest. And she kept weaving plans with the woman who was reflected in the water's surface.

(Translated by Teodora Anghelachi / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)