Iustin Panta
These Sleeping Pills
This is an incident I’ll never be able to forgive him. A while
later he chided me, that I’d gone off without leaving behind so much
as a sign, written a few lines, at least some more or less charming
lie. Look, here I am, lying alone in my bed, and I keep dwelling on
this incident instead of falling asleep. These sleeping pills are
good for nothing. But what effect could they have against the
thought that he once told me, “When I kiss you, you should feel the
same thing a hi-fi pickup feels as the needle slowly descends and
the record starts spinning . . . —how wonderful, the symphony of
night.” But this isn’t what most annoyed me. The day we broke up, it
was Easter; we’d planned to spend it together. He said to me, “It’s
a holiday,” and held out three traditional red eggs, but with naked
women painted on their shells. And the women weren’t some of those
cheap stickers, he’d painted each of them himself, with a certain
degree of craftsmanship. “Why three?” I asked him. “One for each of
the three graces,” he replied at once, as if he’d somehow
anticipated my bewilderment. Then he continued, smiling: “Was that
all you wanted to ask me?” Oh, how I hated his stupid tests . . .
Translated from the Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin and Radu
Andriescu