My father's gone too. I did the inheritance, divided the house, the vineyard and the orchard with my sisters. I sold everything. I gave him the one-year ceremony a few days ago. I gave away his clothes and shoes, donated his books. Framed some pictures of him and my mom. It's still hard. I don't know if we'll get used to being without him. Only the glasses we didn't have anyone to give them to. He was minus 2.5 on his left, minus 3 on his right, and he's been wearing progressives lenses since he was in his fifties. I keep them on my desk and look into his eyes from time to time.
Titela Durnea
A week as long as a lifetime. Running away to the seaside with Ada, my childhood friend. The first evening. The pier. The sound of the wave breaking. Deep, black eyes. The Tango. Intertwined bodies. Amber skin rolling defiantly in the sea foam. Ada: are you blind? Do you realize they're just taking advantage of you? The last night. The train. The promise. The waiting. I've been coming back for 15 years. Summer. In the same place, my big toe draws curved frames in the sand with huge lenses. From there, from my left eye, I take my eternity. For another year.
Lucian Pătru
You write, deserting the image of your imagination through the tips of your fingers. You grin drily, visualizing the crucifixion of your thoughts in the arena of unfamiliar eyes. You feel how they hurl and devour your every word until only ashes of life remain in their mouths. They yawn fed up by it and you are left alone, wondering if they have lived the same story. It's sad that you don't have glasses you can give them for that. You wrap it in a shroud, take your spade and start digging. You spill letter by letter and leave the Earth as it was.
(Translated by Cristina Ioana Bontea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.