Veta could not forget him. That shy look gave her chills. She began to dream his fearful eyes. Annoyingly indiscreet, she followed him in the evening, when she knew he was going home. She dreamed of being in his arms, being carried over the threshold, of that house as a loving wife. It will be there, a he with her. Sometimes she was standing lost in thoughts in front of the white walls. Forgetting to leave. In the morning she was looking at him as he passed by her, running after the tram. She decided not to be discreet anymore and rang the doorbell. The fat and silent lady looked at her coldly. Finally, the nanny arrived.
Ligia Dumitrescu
That's me - vigilante. A lot of people don't like it, but someone has to know what's going on in this apartment building. My flat is on the ground floor, right at the entrance to the stairs. Every morning I leave the door ajar. So nothing passes without my knowledge. The neighbor from third floor came with a guy, who was not her husband, in the middle of the day. The bimbo from the seventh floor. Only I know what goes on there. Nothing escapes me. I put them all in the notebook. To have proofs. Today I woke up with a guy in the house. To check if I'm okay, he said. I'm going to install a door viewer.
Ionuț Morariu
Not even the wind knew where Mutu[1] was wandering. Let alone his wife who, however stormy and Hurricane Katrina she was, she was still human. Until one day. When Mutu left, of course like the wind, and forgot. That discretion is an essential value and that the monogamous family is the basic cell of society. But, he also forgot the phone on the table. From here onwards Mutu began to suffer. Of heart and beatings. In short, his arrhythmia accelerated and he died. The moral is written on the cross: you should fear words. But, never the silence.
[1] Mutu means mute. In the text, Mutu is used as a name.
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.