Max, the butcher

Next to the building I live, there is a butchery. The butcher is a man in his 50s, very well-mannered. He has never ever said any bad word to me. That’s because he never talks to me. His son, on the other hand, is the one always serving from 4pm to 8pm. To be truly honest, sometimes I cannot find him if I go there between 4 and 8, but I noticed that in this sort of cases, he is there earlier. And if he is not, then for sure he is walking out the back door at 8.30pm exactly, closing down the shop with his father. During work hours, he always smiles. At closing time, I have no clue, because I make sure he doesn’t see me.

His name is Max. That’s what the nametag on his chest says. I suspect he is a creative spirit, since he has this sort of dreamy look every time I catch his eye. There’s no wedding band. And i’m sure there’s no girlfriend either, since all the time he looks at my hands 2 seconds more than necessary. So what’s the harm in a little civilized exchange of smiles?

For 3 weeks, since I saw him running in the neighbourhood, I’ve been buying meat every single day. And so far, the smiles have been going back and forth and growing from showing one tooth up to showing almost the complete rows of teeth. And that’s all. I’m pretty sure some “i don’t sneeze because baby flies die from the draft” doll has deceived him. Otherwise I cannot understand how come in 3 weeks he hasn’t said a word. Obviously, there is something going on.

Yesterday I went shopping again. This time i needed some pork. I got in the butchery, queued for a while. It fit perfectly, because I had an excuse to throw glances at him from time to time. Max has been eyeing me all the time. He’s quite cute actually, although having to spot him behind the carcasses is not really a top fantasy of mine.

- Hello. What would you like today?
Huge grin appearing on my face.
- 200gr of pork meat.
- Coming up, fresh, he replies with a smile.
- Thank you!

Did you notice how he said “fresh”? There was a longer “e” than normally. And he didn’t blink at all. Just smiled, and looked at me.

When I got home, I unpacked the meat. It was packed very nicely, very considerate, in 2 layers of paper, so its juices wouldn’t ruin my other shopping. I bet he doesn’t make this effort for every customer he has. When I unfolded the second layer, I noticed there was something written on the paper. So he finally decided to give me his number, or make a move or something. It was about the time, since I kind of ran out of ideas of meat recipes or friends whom to offer the meat to.

The paper had a few words scratched:
- Stop stalking me. Thank you :)

Mike. The one and only

Somehow I don’t really have girl-friends. I’m more the kind of person to whom guys come and pour their soul. I’m not sure if they do it because it’s written across my face “free shrink” or simply because they honestly believe, in their innocence, that if you are a girl, you can read all the other girls’ minds.

So here is Mike. He’s about 2 years older than me, huge as a mountain, smart, has decent hobbies like wrestling, reading and being caught in the rain. The last bit I just said it not because it’s true, but because he does have a softish side. He does. Mike also likes refined food like chips with wasabi and snail with bernaise sauce. He has a strong idea about justice, and even beat once a guy who didn’t show up for our 4th date. Said he cannot stand the “imbeciles who take advantage of a girl”. I quite minded that, since I dumped the guy and Mike didn’t believe me. Now that i’m thinking about it, I don’t even know why we are friends because honestly, we don’t really have anything in common.

So Mike rings my door bell yesterday. It was a lazy sunday, I didn’t expect anyone. Naturally, my legs are unshaven and this is the only thing I am ashamed of in front of my guy-friends. I grab some long pants, put them on, and answer the door.

- Hi!
- Hi..
- Look, I’ve got some beer. If you are with someone, I wouldn’t mind sharing it, if he’s cool.
- Ok...I’m actually alone, browsing some magazines. What’s up?
- I’m decided, everything is set.
- What?
- Remember when we saw “The painted veil”? I told you then I want to go to Asia and help the orphans. And single mothers. And the sick. But mostly the orphans. Poor kids, not knowing their mom or dad. Or even worse, not knowing any of the two. I’ve got it all set with my brother. We’ll spend the summer there with a NGO. We put some money aside, and anyways we’ll use that for sweets and toys for kids, since the NGO will provide the shelter and bowl of soup for us. Besides, this is going to be a really good practice for later on when I open an orphanage.
- I didn’t know you were planning all this.
- It’s great, because for the first time in my life I feel I have a purpose. I can fight for something.
- Congrats, you are one of the few lucky ones!
- Well, I came over to tell you I’m leaving next week. And to ask you if I can leave my dog with you.
- Sure.
- There’s just one thing that bothers me still. You remember Melanie, the cute brunette from the art school? I’ve been dating her a couple of months nows.
- Yes.
- Could you keep an eye on her? She’s a little bit pregnant. I think it’s nice if someone could call her from time to time, so she won’t feel alone. I’ll be very busy, and besides there’s the time difference also. Would you do that for me?

And there he was. Mike, the fighter for a better world.

Maddox and me

I met Maddox exactly a week ago. We haven’t seen each other for the past 15 years, since we both graduated from highschool. He used to be the kind of guy that all girls liked, and he liked all and none of them. His special treat was that he would always find a hurt puppy, or cat, or bird, or whatever crawling, flying or walking breathing thing, that had between 0 and 10 legs. We would hang out a lot, because he would always want to fix the hurt creature, and my mom was a vet. Of course at that time I thought that he would find the poor animals on purpose, because he liked my brown eyes and he wanted to hang out more.

The moment when I discovered the truth was very much like this phonecall of his from last week: he called at 11pm, asking in a sugary voice if I liked the fruits he brought me that afternoon. The thing was that we hadn’t seen that afternoon, he just dialled a wrong number. He apologized, I made a small scene, and that was the true beginning of our pragmatical friendship: my mom would cure the animals with no charge, he would do my math homework, and together we would spend a lot of time talking about nonsense. With the first real girlfriend, we lost track of each other and I had no clue what had happened to him until last week.

His voice was shaky. From what I’ve seen in the movies, I could have sworn that he was drunk. We agreed to meet at a coffee shop in the design district. It took me 30 minutes to find it, so naturally I was late, and I was afraid I would not recognize him. What made me meet him after so much time? I guess the fact that I was alone again, piling up the socks of my last boyfriend, getting them ready for the bin. I saw it as a sign somehow - maybe I was high from the humongous amount of chocolate I had ingurgitated. I put my coat on, and I headed to the door, thinking that my brown eyes were a bit more wrinkled now.

Maddox was wearing a white pullover, and green gloves. He almost looked like an eco version of Santa Claus. He greeted me politely. I was expecting hugs, sobs and kisses, but I guess we are too old for that. Maddox sat across from me, ordered a glass of wine and looked me straight in the eye. “Great to see you”, he told me. I tried to echo his words, but just  a squeaky sound came out of my mouth. I was ashamed. Maddox put his left gloved hand on top of my hand and said he wants to tell me something. I wanted to ask him why he called me, after so many years, and why on earth we met in the design district. Also, I would have liked him to tell me I looked great. That was the least he could do to compensate all my unanswered questions.

- For the past 6 months, I have been building a house. For my fiancée and me.
- Great, congratulations!
- Actually not me myself. I’m only the architect. It’s quite beautiful. Spacious, huge windows, a small fireplace and a back garden for future kids to play in. There’s a grilling place also, a swing and a hammock. Next to it there’s a small kiosk with books. It’s the kind of house that you see in these latest magazines, that the celebrities have.
- Oh, wonderful!
- Everything is built already. The only thing left now is the outside painting. We couldn’t really agree on the colour from the beginning. I’m the architect, I should know better, but she’s the future wife, and she needs to like it better. Last week we decided to paint it ivory. It was such a beautiful day when we decided to paint it, that I didn’t feel like sitting on the side. I took a ladder, propped it next to the entrance door, and started painting. I could feel the wood taking rapid gulps from the paint in my brush. I wanted to put the paint all over my body, then hug the house and transfer the colour from my clothes to its walls. I wanted to reach to all the small corners, all the hidden pieces of wood that were hoping to get the paint. So I reached. Further and further. Until my ladder slipped and I felt suspended in the air. My hands were grabbing around, for anything that was solid. I don’t know how, my right hand found a rope. For the smallest moment, I was a huge and heavy fly suspended by a tiny spider thread. The next second I was landed on my back, and my right hand was burning. When I looked at it, my fingers were gone. The rope had cut through it, like a plastic knife cuts through butter.  Then they took me to the hospital.
- I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say...
- You don’t need to say anything. Do you want to hear something funny?
- Always.
- Last night, when I called you, I actually dialled the wrong number. I realized it too late, just now when I saw you. But since we met, do you know, by any chance, if your mother can get me some of those painkillers?

Martisor de 1 martie

Doar 14 minute mai tarziu, vreau sa va urez o primavara frumoasa si sa binevoiti sa primiti in casele voastre un martisor de la mine.


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Drama Evdochiei Țambal

Până să devină prietenă cu Ispasia, Evdochia Țambal a dus o viață normală: a fost ultima la catalog, a fost trasă de cozi de băieți și și-a julit genunchii în fiecare vară la bunici, sărind pârleazul, cum îi șade bine oricărei odrasle orășenești. A visat să devină învățătoare în satul bunicilor, mereu domnișoară și, cum altfel, mereu curtată de comandanți, piloți, sau oricine purta o uniformă diferită de cea de muncitor de fabrică. Preoții ieșeau din discuție, că auzise de la bunica ei cum că respectivii aduc mulți colaci în casă, și ea personal voia bomboane. Cum s-a împrietenit cu Ispasia, Evdochia Țambal a intrat într-o perioadă nefastă a vieții sale de numai 14 ani pana în clipa respectivă. A început să aibă dureri teribile, fața i s-a acoperit de pete și coșuri, a început să refuze să completeze oracole și într-un acces de furie (devenite din ce în ce mai dese), a enunțat că ciorapii albi pur și simplu nu se mai poartă. Într-o dimineață, în drum spre școală, tânăra domnișoară a hotărât că numele ei, până atunci unic și adorat, nu se potrivește cu secolul xxi așa că a început să se prezinte drept Evy Te. Ca o bună prietenă, Ispasia i-a fost alături în fiecare clipă grea.

Evy Te iubește să se plimbe. Adoră să vadă în copacii parcurilor diverse forme animaloide. Ispasia ascultă cu nerăbdare, și îi sugerează să se apuce de artă, pentru că evident, are o forță creatoare nemaipomenită și puterea de a vedea ceea ce alții nu văd. Așa că Evy Te dă la arte, intră prima sub linie la cu plată, și merge la o pizza să sărbătorească cu Ispasia. Ispasia e fericită. Ea e la dietă, așa că fiecare ocazie de a mânca pizza este binevenită. Între timp, Ispasia a luat și ea, la fără plată, la filologie. Ei îi place să citească, Evyei Te îi place să creeze, așa că plănuiesc împreună un weekend în București, “să fie mai aproape de piloții în uniforme, și să se mai scuture de praful provincial din accentul vocii lor”.

Drumul la București a fost frumos. Pădurile erau pline de gheparzi, urși, unicorni, centauri, maimuțe. Ispasia nici nu știa unde să mai întoarcă ochii, iar Evy Te nu contenea să deseneze pe geamul aburit al trenului săgeți spre animalele pe care le vedea trecându-i pe sub ochi. Șinele trenului erau șerpi lucitori, trenul devenise un acvariu și ele se vedeau deja printre animale marine ciudate. După miezul nopții, Ispasia și Evy Te și-au continuat jocul fantezist, folosind drept țintă domnul cu ochelari rotunzi de pe bancheta de vis-a-vis, despre care au concluzionat că nu poate fi altceva decât instalator, așa cum mamaia de lângă el, cu batic în carouri, era cu siguranță soția cu care se căsătorise din interes. Acum mergeau la București să declare divorț, pentru că între timp soția descoperise că instalatorul-soț își găsise un alt portofel suflet cald care să îl aline. În sacoșa din dreapta lui se găseau cu siguranță toate scrisorile de dragoste pe care instalatorul i le trimisese viitoarei soții, să poată dovedi instanței cât de mult o iubește, pe ea și pe banii ei, din care spera cu sufletul deschis să obțină o parte. Toată povestea fusese “descoperită” de Evy Te, și notată amănunțit de către Ispasia, care plănuia un roman pe care să îl trimită apoi pe post de script pentru o telenovelă.

Toată noaptea, Evy Te și Ispasia au cusut și au descusut povești despre toți călătorii din vagonul lor, și au ajuns la concluzia că mama natură le-a înzestrat cu o putere extraordinară a minții. Singura întrebare era, ce o să le aducă Bucureștiul? Au aflat imediat ce au ajuns în gară: bagaje, oameni grăbiți, înghesuială, exact decorul perfect pentru un atac terorist. Așa că Evy Te( nimeni nu știa ca demult o chemase Evdochia Țambal), și Ispasia, s-au întrecut în a-l identifica pe terorist. L-au găsit sprijinit de o geantă mare maro, cu cheiță aurie cumpărată de la tonetă. Brunet, aproximativ 1.80, constituție atletică, început de calviție și cămașă în carouri cu verde și galben. Evy Te și Ispasia s-au strâns una în cealaltă, urmărind încordate mișcările teroristului. Suspectul scoate o țigară din haină, aprinde cu mâna stăngă. Are o cicatrice pe mână, probabil de la arsurile de țigară pe care le-a primit când a fost inițiat, la recrutare. Suspectul trage un fum, și își rotește ochii, urmărind în jur. Fumează nervos, se uită de câteva ori spre Evy Te și Ispasia. Mai trage un fum. Mai aruncă o privire nervoasă și plină de ură. Ca fulgerul, aruncă țigara pe jos, își repezește mâna în buzunar, scoate un pistol și trage. Evy Te se prăbușește, și în spatele ei un domn gras, la costum alb și papuci cu vârful întors, trântește ușa limuzinei și demarează în trombă.

Sirena salvării țiuie în timp ce încearcă să își facă loc. O măturătoreasă a găsit pe jos un buletin pe numele Evdochia Țambal, și se grăbește să îl ducă unui prieten de încredere, cu mână largă, artist la a crea acte din nimic. Sau cel puțin așa își închipuie Ispasia, în timp ce se leagănă in ambulanță, uitându-se la Evy Te.

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.