Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Dana Grigorcea

After she’s tossed the last newspaper onto my lap, Sweetie looks at me, and her glasses have the same sparkle as always. “Now, tell me something good, something that’ll make me happy.” I say nothing, I just nod—do I actually nod?—and she says “bravo,” and goes on about “young women nowadays,” whose precious youth fades away because they spend it toiling in the dreary offices of dubious multinationals before they even get a chance to experience any joy in life, a real man, a real dance, a real anything. The young women rushing by don nasty expressions, as if to confirm what’s being said about them, and now I know I can’t get away. If I left in a hurry it would be tantamount to confessing that I’ve failed in life: Sweetie would tsk- tsk as my silhouette melted into distance under the afternoon sun, and feel sorry for my poor parents, “Such good people, the poor dears, what on earth did they do to deserve this . . . “ I used to bring her flowers—lilacs, jasmine, or roses from the neighboring gardens. Sweetie’s place was full of flowers, and on some evenings, when she turned on her yellowish lamp, the cabin glowed like a precious Tiffany lamp, the colorful flowers packed in tight, a backdrop for her wine-red coif. Come to think of it, her coif has survived all the ups and downs of recent history, maintaining the exact same shape and color.

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