Jazz

Daniela Toader
I sit at the bar and order a whiskey. Then, I close my eyes and listen. I smell. The Saturday night hustle and a whiff of sweat mixed with tobacco. I open my eyes and there he is. The guy next to me. Jazz? No, fox. Sometimes pop. And tango, rarely. But why not jazz? Why exactly jazz? Is it a fixation? This fixation is exactly what I don't want to discuss right now. It would ruin everything. And yet, why jazz? Fine, fine, if you insist; because not rock. Well, not that much. So, jazz? No, whiskey. That's why.
 
 Monica Ciurea
With your shy whimper, hoarse like an intro, they carried you from one arm to another; you recognize many scents in your nostrils; all the women who rocked you through the basements are not your mother, nor is your father your actual father; maybe yours is raising other children; the man next to you is a stranger, ready to strike; you didn't have a classical score like the others, you had to modulate the days with firm blows on the keys, make them count, improve everything here and now. Swing, baby, swing, because only you are the art that shapes the result.

Nicolae Popescu
Miles Davis's trumpet echoes near the frying pan where the pork ribs are sizzling. Pricop tries to catch the rhythm with his hips caught in his apron. He would drink beer, but Gilda is waiting for him with Moet, caramelized duck, fine underwear. Another level, not just of an apartment building. He promised his wife, Vera, that he would prepare the meal so she would let him go out with the boys, supposedly. He hears Zavaidoc[1]'s voice from the living room. Then Vera's: who made me build the house next to yours. Pric throws off his apron, opens the door and starts dancing with Vera. Gilda and Miles can wait.

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