"Our Streets Don’t Cross" I reached out a hand and the tips of her fingers timidly brushed my palm. What is it that’s revealed to her in people’s palms that confuses her so? Do they clench in a fist about to deal a blow? Do their fingers spread out like the legs of a spider to show her the money they hold? I cannot imagine her smiling. Have words only ever reached her though bared teeth? She sleeps rough, yet her clothes look clean, cleaner than mine, actually: does she take showers in strangers’ bathrooms until every trace of them is washed away? Our streets don’t cross and our underpasses are empty, each in a different way. But can we imagine that one day things could be different? Could she hug her child in the mornings and fall asleep with him every evening? Could she go to a movie and laugh along with everyone else? Could I send her a link to a song? But this is not important. I only hope she can breathe whenever she wants to. I stopped thinking about it and decided to open the window to let in the fresh air. No wind rushed in. At least we suffocate the same. Written originally in Bulgarian, translated by Vladimir Poleganov. The whole project is here: https://issuu.com/svetoslav.todorov/docs/tenconversationszine
