A second dream

The theatre is lofty but stifled by the smell of stale popcorn and sugary fizzed off beverages. I’m warm in my daughter’s corduroy faux fur trim jacket, a little long on me but light like her awkward grown-up hugs. Chin up, I swallowed the tears buried beneath the half battered lash extensions. The movie is okay I thought, the armrest between our chairs raised, my companion held on to the armrest far from me… Perhaps deep in the darkest part of his subconscious he knows. The salty tears bitter at the back of my throat, and I knew, I care for him enough to lie.

There’s an odd taste of coffee on my lips, bitter but rich, a burnt taste of tobacco. I saw him for a second through my swallowed digested tears; snugged in a charcoal coat, beret, deep in a book. My beloved, a figment of my imagination.

By Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm

There's magic in translating a body of work from one language to another.

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