Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Doina RuSti

reflected on Alisa – she roamed the streets with the pride of provenance feathering her shoulders. Her hair was black and so shiny that in the satin fabric of the day, from a distance, it looked like a house martin in flight. It was just before noon when the silk shoe of Alisa passed hastily by the canopy almost drained by the winter’s tongues. A wasp was buzzing above the jars, and the sun’s feathery light was breathing through the roof slats. The black hair fluttered by a tulip’s cup-shaped bloom, and the pride of the caste, the crackling of burning wood and the aroma of walnut cake spread in the market air. The mist, as spicy as a

mustard seed, smacked Eugen. And, as in so many other occasions, the small beings invaded all-out, the maniacal tongue and the compulsive desire acting like swords, plunged mercilessly into Alisa’s flesh, yet unknown. The market sighed, and several pairs of eyes strained through bouquets of lilac, up to the stand where the little man rested sleepily covered up in the old habit. Alisa received the message like the prick of a thorn. Around her, the world swarmed, bouquets of flowers swayed, and she remained in the centre, like a drugged cat. A scalding and perverse stream was rolling in her muscle fibers, her swelling glands and the walls of her throat.

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