Delicate

Vero Anttheia Teodoru
He slapped his wife in front of the two boys, one seven years old, the other four, then quietly poured himself a glass of Stalinskaya, which he savoured in the cramped kitchen where, for some time now, they had been eating alone, rarely managing to gather together for a meal, and not because there was no room. The children fled to the bedroom as usual, the youngest with tears in his eyes, the oldest with confusion mixed with hatred. In the mother's mind, the fragile burgeoning thought took on a clear shape. He never saw them again.
 
 Ionuț Tuhoarcă
On the way to vote. I vote in only one place. Once. Alone. With a stamp. I raise the curtain. I lower the curtain. I stamp like a goose that has found its voice. It should be a woman. And so it was. I don't hesitate that I struggled terribly to untangle myself from the curtains of the polling station. I easily ran to the ballot box. I folded the lie. I put it in the slot. That's what we need. I asked friends. Who did you vote for? Cuckoo answered me. Niet pagadi. But I didn't trust it. The dynamite. I sat down at the table with Mașa. Hey, how are you?

Cristina Daniela Dumitru-Pascal
Another day, the same road. Towards the park. With such dignity in the worn coats, that you couldn't help but turn your head and admire them. She would place him on a bench and buy a hot chocolate. They sat side by side without a word. She knew that, for him, it was really the same day, the same road. She placed her hand over his hand resting on the backrest. She smiled. Sadly. Who are you, he broke the silence. She stood up and, with a simple gesture, kissed him on the forehead. That's it. He watched her. He felt her. My dear, I am who I am, but please, don't let me forget you.

(Translated by Teodora Anghelachi / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by prof. dr. Nadina Vișan, edited by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)