Agnosia

Paul Dârvariu
Doctor, please-I'm begging you-tell the lady with the glasses to stop coming to see me. She's tormenting me. Claims she's my wife. No matter how many times I tell her that's impossible-how could she be, when I'm legally married to Angelina? Everyone knows we tied the knot a month after that fool Brad left her. But she won't believe me. Waves some fake certificate under my nose saying she's the one married to me. Now, I don't mind the fact that she keeps stuffing me with stuffed cabbage rolls and pancakes. But what am I supposed to do if she tries to slip into bed next to me? What if poor Angelina finds out?
 
 Julia Sandu
Agony, agnosia-bitter and sour. Today I run aimlessly, hazy, abandoned, absent. Amore? It came, it vanished, smoked its last cigarette and tossed the match onto our memories. Truth? I barely touch it, barely bear it. I'd sleep-suffocated, numb, sunken deep into the asphalt. Alcohol soothes, chases off the dread. Absurd agony, anonymous agnosia, anorexic amore, years flung to the wind. Love is like warm beer: full of promise, and in the end, just makes you sick. You drink it anyway, hoping the next one will be better. And like a fool, you ask for another.
 
 Cecilia Fofiu
Hey, Dad, I'll come by around noon-do you need anything? I ask over the phone, relieved he answered on the second call. Since Mom passed, he's been alone-and no matter what, he refuses to move in with us. I've got everything. Some liniment, maybe. My feet are killing me today, can barely walk, he laments. Worried, anxious, I show up early at his door. You brought it? he asks, grimacing from the rocking chair by the stove. I pull out the tube the pharmacist recommended and rush to take off the little patent leather heels-Mom's shoes-that he's somehow managed to squeeze his feet into.

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