She wears a mini and glasses, she’s myopic. She has the key to your small, rented room. She rolls her r’s naturally and doesn’t hang around bus stops. She has money for taxis. She shines. She persecutes you with a smile. She’s relaxed and she says she loves you. She lies next to you on the sheet. She gets hold of tickets for the Athenaeum. She takes you out in the world when you get bored, then shows you off to everyone – an exhibit. She brings you a mug of tea when you work at the piano and empties the ashtray. She goes on tiptoe and turns the key in the lock, slowly. All of a sudden, she says she’s not coming to your place tonight. She used to be first in her class at school. She goes with you to hockey matches at the rink and screams louder: she’s cruel, violence excites her.

She cries at movies and gets happy with tears: she throws her arms around your neck and gives you her hair to smell. She sits in the armchair and knits, looks at you in silence, listens to chords from Schumann, brings rare records, doesn’t believe one iota of your nonsense about concerts in overfull halls – you are one meek, shabby bum; you keep quiet too much. She’s full of life, doesn’t go into pastry shops. She’s pretentious and cold; she seems to levitate among passersby. She admires herself in pharmacy windows. She loves beaches and hates snowfall and cold and the north and Bucharest slush in March. She’s an intellectual, calculated, catlike, she makes mistakes; she’s a Bovary. She picked you; she’s your stretcher bearer and your Algocalmin. She’s your porn movie, and she’s also your resonance box. She’s irreplaceable; she breathes for your lungs too. She fixes your tie when she takes you to visit a family, gets up late when she stays at your place. She’s confused you completely with her sudden nonsense and hates, with repeated desertions, with her care for your conjunctivi