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Rositza Borkovski


Cleans, washes the clothes, cooks. Runs the house, nurtures the family. Takes care. Worries. Washes the dishes. And while washing, she thinks.

The spoons, the forks, her son, the knifes: “Has he arrived there on time? Why did he need to look for his fortune all the way in Germany?! I hope he calls! At least to hear his voice... I should remember to tell him to buy a scarf, he forgot his in the hurry... it must be cold there...”

The glasses, crystal, delicate, her daughter, fragile: “Oh, God, let her pass the entrance exams this year! She studied so much, she’s so smart! Only that she stays home too much, doesn’t go out, has no friends. She used to have them, she used to be so outgoing...”

The plates, a whole stack, deep, her husband, and shallow: “He works so hard recently. Exhausts himself. Always conferences, meetings. And that new boss of his, so ambitious... of course, she has no family...”

The phone. Startled her. She dropped the plate and the thought about her husband. They broke. “Hello! I’ll be late. Don’t wait for me for dinner. My boss, you know how ambitious she is, she’s got new ideas...”

“Sweep up what’s broken. Throw it away. After that, dry the plates and arrange them in the cupboards. Everything has to be tidy, orderly. Don’t cry...”



© Rositza Borkovski
© Emil Lazarov, translated
© E-magazine LiterNet, 01.08.2005, № 8 (69)