Since I retired, I have a hobby. In the afternoon, I make a coffee, go out on the balcony, and wait for the neighbor to come back from work. A colorful suit, with the skirt just above the knee, highlighting the well-defined legs in the sculpted trunk, breasts between which bloom hidden desires, all make me dream beautifully at night. I smell and hear the oily rustling of my wife: I bet she doesn't know how to make fried meatballs. Maybe not, but how I would eat a celery salad, I say with regret. Of course, in my mind. Out of hunger, meatballs with sauce will do.
Andra Toropoc
She had jumped out of the car excitedly, are we there yet? Where are the mountains? Come on, I'll take the perfect first day photo. The lodgekeeper watched her from the doorstep and was amused, hmm, a dress over pants, elastic sandals, rainbow hair and bells around her neck and ears, entranced by the extraordinary she was posting and commenting on. Look, dear ones, meadows and cows and little horses, they look like they are painted. And a nice breeze and the sound of nature, I'm sending you all of that now. Suddenly, the lodgekeeper's voice was heard on the recording: you will hear the forest better after the woodpecker stops.
Oana Jindiceanu
For a while now, I've had a cry lodged in my chest. I haven't had time to truly deal with it; all I could do was shed a few tears in secret. Today, after waking up exhausted because I dreamed that I had a performance and I didn't remember the lines and nobody wanted to give me a text to look at a little, today I decided. I have to release it somehow, with all the sobs. I put on some French music because there's nothing more beautiful than crying in French. And this sunset. Parole, parole.
(Translated by Eduard Mihai Uretu / 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.