MrT and I

MrT is tall and he has the most gorgeous dark eyes I have ever seen. He has the biggest eyebrows (although I can see their upper line has been trimmed a bit, professionally) and the most cunning, mocking and seductive smile, all in one. From the moment I saw him the first time, I thought: dangerous to look at, dangerous to talk to and definitely worth dreaming of.


MrT is my reason for eating salad at noon, drinking tea in the evening and falling asleep naked. Because you see, in my mind, MrT’s touch surely feels like the satin sheets. And I feel like 17 again: trying to hide my pimples, trying to walk straight and unable to utter a word when anywhere in his proximity - that means about 3 meters or more away from him.


It’s not that I am shy. I am not shy. What the hell, I am a director and every day grown up men tremble when I ask them for their reports. It’s just the way he is. You know, him being the sort of man I’ve always dreamed of and stopped dreaming of, because my career is much more important than having a man to cook for. At the beginning, 3 years ago, I thought it was just a crush. A tiny little crush, which of course I exploited. When you are a woman, working in this sort of business, sometimes you need to wear a dress to get the things your way. It’s not manipulation. I’d say it’s more about smart usage of one’s assets. And it looks like it worked in his case also. In the office, in the meetings, whenever our companies have a joint project, I am the ice-queen-perfection of the negotiations, power points and numbers. Whenever we happen to come upon each other in the cafeteria, my brain goes numb, my knees turn to jelly and all my authoritarian magnitude turns to snot. Yep. And the pun was not intended.


- Lovely weather today, he would say. +20, no chance of rain.
- In 20 minutes we have the meeting with the board, i would reply, and i would see myself covering up in haze. I just love to go back to safe ground.
- 20 minutes is a long time. Care for a coffee?
I literally feel the ground surge under my stilettos.
- Sure, no sugar.
Thanks God I have practiced this question enough times with my secretary as to have an automated reply to it.
- So, is your report ready?
I’m not sure if he’s mocking me with this question. Normally that would be a good question, but in this case, when he’s looking straight into my eyes, I kind of feel he means something else.
- Sure.
Sure I’m an idiot I mean, but I don’t say out loud the second part. When you’re asking me about weather, I want to talk about work. When you’re asking about work, I think you’re kidding me. Oh my, you truly are gorgeous and I feel I should come closer to you and just bury my face in your freshly-washed-so-manly-smelling-perfumed collar.
- How long have you been working for this company?
- 10 years.
I love numbers. 10 years, 10 fingers, perfect to count 10 reasons why I am totally lost next to you. I feel my face heating up, and I catch myself pushing out my breasts, while slowing lifting a bit each finger in turns, to keep up with my counting.
- You?  
It’s always polite to ask about the other person, and it buys me time. I can look at him a bit more, continue my counting, and continue biting my lips. I’ve got a question on my lips that has to never come out.
- 15 years.
Oh good. So we would be in bed, all sweaty, I would receive a message from work, and he would start patronizing me, since he has 5 years more than me in the business. No sir, one reason from the 10 is down.
- What are you doing for holidays?
- Going skiing. You?  
I don’t really ski, just fool around for a couple of hours, on a hill near my brother’s house. Didn’t want to sound stupid.
- Going to my parents’. Eating some good old fashioned holidays food.

So you’re your mommy’s boy. My cooking will never be good enough for you. You won’t even know how to make fries. You spoiled brat! One more reason down.

- Then I would be going partying with some cousins. Family is important in my tradition.

So if I am about to give birth, and the cat of the family is feeling sick, you would leave me alone to drive 200km to check on the cat. What on earth did I see at you?

- Listen, would you like to go for a drink after the meeting?

Can’t believe he asked. After hinting he’s a spoiled patronizing mommy’s brat, he asks me out.
How does he dare? I check my pulse, I check my composure and at this short checkup, my crush seems to be reported missing. And my MrT appears just about 5cm taller than me. And I’m 1.60m.

Cloudberry Sofa - primele rezultate

Ziceam acu ceva vreme ca am inceput un grup de "creative writing". La prima intalnire am fost 3 oameni(aproximativ 4, daca numaram si persoana care a venit pe final). La a doua intalnire, de aseara, au fost nici mai mult nici mai putin de 6 oameni! Impreuna cu cei care au venit sa spuna "salut", au fost 10!

Imi creste inima cand vad ca sunt si alti oameni interesati de scris. Pentru mine a fost un challenge sa ii zicem pe englezeste, pentru ca nu am mai scris povestiri pana acum in engleza. Daca vreti sa va delectati/sau nu, pun mai jos prima povestire pentru grup, dupa tematica "anger" - de care eu m-am cam indepartat cu gratie. Totate povestirile, alte tuturor celor care sunt de acord bineinteles, vor fi publicate si aici.

Si acum luati o cana de cafea si rabdare, ca urmeaza (din pacate in engleza, si cu greseli):

I can see some blood dripping from his upper lip on his lower lip, making room through the cracks. His whole skin is cracked, I can almost see the flesh under it. The blood is burning over his arid skin. He’s licking his upper lip, but he’s out of saliva, so the blood doesn’t go away. The only thing that happens is his blood smudging his cracked and dry mouth, and his evil teeth. Teeth that bite from inside his cheeks. I want with all my being that he’s got one crack for each and every bruise that he ever gave me.
I scoop my legs under me. It’s cold, the sandstone is cold, and the wall is stinging me. I feel I’m going numb. I can see his snake’s tongue, like a metallic saw, cutting through each piece of innocence I still have left.
I’ve been growing here. At times when kids were going to Dad’s Day fairs, I was home, under the table, shaking, knowing that he would come home and throw an empty bottle at me. He never did. I was hoping he would, and then we could be friends. Some kids at the shelter were saying that that happened with them and their dads. I feel sick. So much trust, so many hopes, so much misery, for nothing. So many childish dreams. The only thing I learnt from him is how to swear. And how to stay still when I just want to hit him so hard that he would ask me to forgive him.
One second, and the shower hose is eating again at my flesh. One second of not paying attention, on the cold tiles. And his bloodshot eyes. I’ve never seen so much hatred in my life. With every day, with every blink of eye, with every drop of air that he sucks, his hatred grows bigger and bigger. Sometimes, when I count my bruises, I wonder how much hatred it takes to suck him in, to make him the Hatred Man. We could learn at him in school and the small girls would know to stay away from him, when they are grown up women. They at least would never marry a Hatred Man and thousands of children would be spared. My leg is aching.
I tried once to drink some washing powder. To clean away whatever’s wrong about me.
He’s shouting at me, and I cannot make myself smaller than this. I would like to be a fly. Stinky, ugly fly that no one cares or bothers about. I can fly over shit. I’ve been in shit for such a long time, that now I want to see how it looks from above. I feel I could yell. Not scream, I’ve done enough of that. Just in my dreams, as to not wake up the soon-to-be Hatred Man.
I wrote my will. It was easy to write, I have nothing to give. I just wrote that I leave all my longing, and all my hopes on my mother’s tomb. Then I got myself an A4 with his face printed on it. I stuck it on my face. And I waited for him.
He came late. I could hear him clearing his throat and spitting in front of the door. I straightened up. He opened the door, stepped inside. I was with my back at the door. He shouted at me, to go. Or face him. He’s smelling of alcohol and whores. I tightened my grip on my mother’s picture. He undid his belt and struck me. Once. Hard, with all his power. I turned, and the picture fell from my hand. He saw it, and he saw his picture on my face. I could feel the world shattering on me. On him. He was sitting in front of me, dumb. I tried to pick up my mother’s picture. He hurried up to get it before me, got tangled up, and fell on the ground. He was crying. With all his Hatred Man heart, with his entire weight, with all his loneliness, all his anger, all his unclosed wounds. And from that moment on, I knew I loved him.

Revista pres(ent)ei

Inca sunt datoare cu ce s-a intamplat pe insula in Grecia, si in ziua de gratie 23/24 septembrie, inapoi in Atena. Totusi, in ultima vreme s-au intamplat multe lucruri, si am fost harnicuta ca o albinuta.

Am inceput un nou curs de finlandeza. Mi-am supraestimat un pic calitatile, si dupa ce m-am simtit ca ultimul dintre pamanteni la o ora de Suomi4, am reusit sa ma transfer la o clasa mai aproape de nivelul meu, adica Suomi2. Profesoara e extraordinara si m-a bucurat sa imi dau seama ca imi mai aduc aminte chestii invatate acum aproape 1 an. Deci, minä puhun suomea*. Zmoac, zmoac, inteligenta lu' mama.

Alta chestie faina e ca respectivul curs Suomi2 e intr-o cladire a universitatii exact langa Biserica Alba. Adica am onoarea sa vad catedrala si pe zi, si pe noapte, si mai vad si eu ce se intampla in centru. Chestia mai putin faina e ca asta e singurul corp de universitate in care sunt inspaimantata sa intru. E *plin* de statui! Deci orele de finlandeza nu o sa fie doar ore de finlandeza, ci si epopei in care eu lupt de zor cu frica mea de statui. Brrrrr

Si ultima veste mareata e ca impreuna cu Helena incepem un grup de creative writing. Se cheama cloudberry sofa si joia viitoare avem prima intalnire. Deci daca esti in Helsinki si ai chef sa auzi niste povesti scrise de alti oameni, in timp ce stai frumusel pe canapea la mine acasa sau acasa la Helena, sau vrei ceva care sa iti dea inapoi "puterea" de a scrie, asta e locul pentru tine! Ca bonus, jocuri cu cuvinte, care au rolul sa stimuleze creativitatea. Asta ca sa nu mai poata nimeni spune "as scrie dar nu stiu despre ce".

Ta-da si pe mai tarziu.