Moja ženska ustaje ujutro u šest
da ne zakasni na posao u tvornici. Išulja se tiho kao lasica i nikada ne znam poljubi li me na odlasku.
Kad se probudim, njen je jastuk
već hladan. Opasna hladnoća
zrači odande i, izbjegavajući jezivu šutnju, odbauljam u kuhinju,
otvorim hladnjak i doručkujem uobičajenu bocu piva; njegov
hladan, muklo taman sadržaj
razlije se po nutrini moga tijela kao ugodan zaštitni film i kad je boca prazna moje su osjetljive probavne sluznice već sigurno odvojene od maglenog ljubljanskog zraka te se mogu bez velika straha uputiti na gradske ulice.
Već je prošlo gotovo deset godina otkako svako jutro na isti način prelazim put do knjižnice – tamo
me u čitaonici čeka knjigama prekriven stol, za koji nikada nitko ne sjedne osim mene. Ako koga u mojoj odsutnosti i privuče, znam
da mu ljubazne knjižničarke nešto šapnu na uho i čovjek se u trenu predomisli i pođe za drugi stol.
(...)

Every morning my girlfriend gets up at six to make it to the factory on time. She steals
away like a weasel and I never know if she kissed me on her way out. When I wake up, her pillow is already cold. It emanates a deadly coldness and I crawl away from the
creepy silence into the kitchen, open the fridge and have my usual bottle of beer. Its cold,
dull and dark contents spread over my insides like a
comforting protective film and
by the time I finish the bottle,
my digestive mucus is securely detached from the foggy air of Ljubljana, allowing me to walk
its streets without fear.
This ritual to get me to the library has been going on for almost ten years now. There,
in the reading-room, is a desk loaded with books that nobody else would read but me. Even if someone were drawn to sit
there when I’m not around, the librarians would whisper something to that person and make her/him change her/his mind and sit at another desk.
(...)