I dropped from the sky in August, when people love each other in the heat, as if it were the end of the world. The time spent in the luxurious compartment of the mitre taught me that the most complete conductor of lives is mother. In the nine months of shaping, she gave me great gifts: sight, hearing, smell, a heart, and everything else a person needs to sprout. I blossomed in March, when I arrived at the platform of spring. The fates destined me to take the last train someday, in October. Since then, every tenth month of the year is a bit of farewell.
Oana Jindiceanu
I found the book you gave me 20 years ago, with a dedication. I had lent it to a friend who was learning French and forgot about it. I was sure it had been stolen from me at the theatre. I was performing with it in a play, convinced that talent can be transferred. I was happy when it finally came back into my arms, just like you're happy to receive a hug after a long yearning. It's a sign that I should speak, I thought. To tell everything. I placed the book on the shelf and fell silent. It's too late, and it's too autumn. I need to cover my heart with something.
Gheorghiță Mircea
In the shabby hotel room, with the iron bed and dirty wallpaper that smells sour, morning arrived. We smoked, she had Kent, which I brought her, and I had Carpați without filter. I like it when it rains, I say. It's good for business, she says, a lot of people feel cold alone. Usually, clients like you. You're strange, professor, I should've charged you a strange tax. Strange? Yes, you know, the artistic side, it's not easy. I know it's a fetish, but others would fall in love with you. But you're my daughter's teacher. How is she doing in math? Fine. She's an intelligent girl. May her mother eat her up.
(Translated by Miruna Baicu / 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.