I would declare my love for beautiful women, and they would tell me to be patient, to wait for my pants to grow, but I managed to find something fitting for my tender age, with a pinafore and blue ribbons on both ponytails, not to mention the lacquer shoes, but she belittled me with the all too specific feminine cruelty, the moment I realized the knots and safety-pins from my mother would ruin the sad moment of shameful refuge between the burrs, and the way home was long, a foul smelling Golgota.
Nic Ularu
These short pants are showing off my cellulite. Put some trousers on to cover it, he tells me. I have cellulite and you have a bod. I gave you the solution, cover it up. Screaming won't melt the cellulite. Well, you're annoying. Okay. All the young tramps wear such pants. Sure, and you're the only tramp left wearing long trousers instead. I'm divorcing, she says and goes to look in the mirror. Even better, I'm getting black fishnet stockings. Okay, says the potbellied.
Yuka Brevi
Alain and Romy. God, such beautiful people. I asked myself, what if they were born in Dăbuleni instead, and were called Alin and Romica. If he were a tractor driver, handsome, with a tank top, short pants and flip-flops, with big blue eyes. If she were on her second marriage, good-looking, cold and mouthy. He would go to the pub, sweaty after a long day of cooking in the sun, drink a few cups of brandy and then would charm our Romicaby the well, until the poor woman would agree to lift her skirts in a haystack down the valley. They'd even eat watermelons.
(Translated by Adrian-Florin Duță / 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.