Ana Toader

And regular time is suddenly torn like a bride’s lingerie.

I’ve witnessed this before, in this city and another, the smell of Hungarian polishing cream poignant to my little nose. My grandmother has done it, while she was still alive and well and I will grow older and more classical and do it too. This thread of house mistress brings us together. And the silver tray shines gravely, silently. Once it had chocolates for ladies playing rummy, in fabulous dresses with one shoulder.

The lady with the fabulous dress is not playing rummy anymore, she is dead. I randomly remember how she grew more fragile and faint, stopping in the middle of conversation to grab my arm, her brittle nails sinking painfully into my flesh, as she slipped into dizziness like Cinderella into a crystal shoe.

How all this takes a polite bite of my heart, as I sip some more resignation.