Gabriel Moldovan
My husband looks at me. What's wrong? You're grumpy again. Nothing. His sigh gets lost in the rustling of the newspaper-damn, I'm so tired of you. I stab my fork into the omelet, but I have no appetite. Twenty years: without fail, on February 14th, I would receive a letter scented with lavender. Shaky handwriting, blue ink: for the most wonderful woman in the world. No name, no clues-a sweet mystery. This year? Nothing. A cursed year-first Grandma, now this. The scent of lavender-her hands, her books. How did I not realize it before?
Dan Banu
He touched thousands of delicate fingers, trying to place the ring, and just as many marble-like feet, attempting to fit the slipper, but none were the right one. They promised him the moon and the stars, but he wanted only the one to whom he would fit as the aura fits the moon and the shine fits the stars. When he finally found her and whispered for her to leave the kingdom behind, to run barefoot to the harbor, to drink wine and feast on mussels, he was in seventh heaven. But at dawn, opening his eyes, he saw on the cold stone of the pier an empty glass and a plate with leftovers.
Siranuș Hakobian
Under the tree, in the clearing, he spread the tablecloth. From the basket, he took out eggs, roast meat, cheese, wine, forks, and two stemmed glasses. With noble dignity, he poured the wine into my glass, and I behaved like a queen, my knees pressed together, my light dress draped over them. Everything was perfect: the blue sky, the green meadow, the bees buzzing as they pollinated, and my king shining beside me. It was the pollination that did it-we didn't even realize when we started kissing like lovestruck peasants. By evening, only the cheese still retained an air of nobility.
(Translated by Andreea Maria Liceanu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.