SElf
she is a quiet kid. a fairy blonde haired girl with penguin little steps. the four sons of the strange neighbours that never talk to anyone harass her in the early morning whispering from the shadow: the big-eyed girl! she knows she should be scared cause those boys never talk to anyone, but she is busy trying to record their so rare voices that nobody has heard besides her. but… that’s all they ever say. she doesn’t like to eat. thin slices of white bread lovely smeared with butter and jam are hidden all over the grandparents’ house. she found a new place yesterday. under the wooden lid of the old singer sewing machine. no one will ever find them there. her grandma says she lives with air. and as all grandmas, this grandma is by all odds right. she eats big chunks of air. she likes them with tea flavour in the morning, with a spike of hay breeze for the summer lunches and with baked corn for the summer dinners. she never speaks to the other kids and nobody bothers to ask her much. maybe they know she’s mute. she is a mute little girl that likes to watch the other kids play. her friend – a kind curly dark haired angel – heats up her mittens in the winter. it’s like magic. she gives the curly haired girl her frozen mittens and she gets the angel’s warm pair in exchange. than, after the friend’s mittens turn rock solid in her poor little innocently cold hands, they do it again. they never talk. this is how all friends and winters should be. and she has quite a good idea about how summers should be. summers are fantastic. summer days are holly days. this is why they all go to baptize themselves in the river every day. and while they’re at it, they also take a swim and play the ball in the water. she loves to fish. she loves to stay and watch the bobber for hours in silence. they say it’s quite unusual for a little girl. but after saying that they smile and ask if she caught anything. her answer is always a sweet shoulder raise. not yet. and she secretly hopes she never will catch a fish. fish are so smart. and quiet. they never let themselves caught.
SUn, 7 a.m.
Întotdeauna se întâmplă ceva extraordinar în oraş duminică la 7 dimineaţa. Trebuie doar să fii acolo. Oameni pe care nu i-ai mai văzut niciodată umblă pe străduţe cu nume noi doar ca să te surprindă. Duminică dimineaţa la 7 eşti turist la tine acasă.
În dimineaţa asta de duminică, să fi fost vreo 7, mă pregăteam de culcare într-un bar după o noapte albă. Şi când zic noapte albă, vreau să zic albă şi pură de Columbia. Acum se făcea că aveam în faţă cu un suc de portocale şi pe Totxa. Pe Totxa îl ştiam de mult, de toată noaptea, dar pe cârciumă abia de-atunci. Era una dintre cârciumile alea pe care dacă le cauţi în altă zi te rătăceşti, iar dacă totuşi nimereşti adresa găseşti o altă cârciumă chiar în locul ei.
regayOV
- Şi eu, iubitule. Îţi scriu cum mă întorc de la Piticu’.
Piticu era sus şi macheta o vrajă în bucătărie. Trăgea cu ochiul din când în când la clienţii care se vânzoleau în sufragerie printre pantofiori Prada şi cămăşuţe Gucci. Îi ura. Un pitic normal le-ar fi închis fermoarul la spate şi i-ar fi minţit că blugii le vin bine pe cur, dar după ce vraja cea verde de Olanda s-a împrăştiat în vălătuci pe geam, piticul meu i-a dat afară urlând:
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