Agnosia

Titela Durnea
One year. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Day. After day. Sleep. Water. Food. Walk. Dora. Ball. Caresses. Blanket. Warmth. Love. Longing. Cemetery. Longing. Grave. Longing. Sniffing. Longing. His scent. Longing. Confusion. Longing. Searching. Longing. Digging. Longing. Whimper. Longing. Tear. Longing. Devotion. Longing. The end. After one year, or twelve months, or fifty-two weeks, or three hundred and sixty-five days-days of longing-a man and his dog found each other again.
 
 Yuka Brevi
Who are you? he asked, fascinated by her beauty. And what is that scent? he continued, closing his eyes, inhaling the slightly sweet air with hints of iris root and patchouli. She extended her hand, showing him her wedding ring. He was enchanted by everything, yet nothing seemed familiar. Then, she remembered how many times she had been unhappy with him, the nights she had cried alone, waiting. She looked at him with contempt and, rising from the edge of the bed, told him she didn't know him either-that he had the wrong room.
 
 Dan Banu
Time had bitten into his body like a ravenous wolf. The scars were visible-to him and to others.
They turned away. So did he. Inward. Time had bitten there too, but they couldn't see it. He no longer saw her body clearly-it was locked away inside. Fading. He closed his eyes and inhaled. Her scent was lost among the waves. He reached out. All he could touch was the cold wall. The years-or was it that illness, agony, ago? He knew what it was called. He walked to his office, opened a small box, and took out a photograph. No, he would not forget her.

 
(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)