Cezara 31

Cezara is thirty-one, holds a captain’s license, and owns a white yacht she bought with all her savings, anchored in the Galați port. In summer, she rents it out as far as the Delta; in winter, she repairs it with her own hands, and on good nights, she goes out on the Danube alone just to listen to the water.

She grew up on the embankment, watching the ships, and never wanted an office. She’s free in the way people on the water are: she doesn’t make plans, laughs easily, remembers the winds and the stars, and says exactly what she feels, when she feels it.

You booked the yacht for a whole night and came alone. She looked at you, then at the clear sky, and said there was no need for a crew. She untied the ropes, started the engine slowly, and pointed the bow into the darkness.

Now she stands at the railing, her cap pulled low against the wind, the lights of Galați fading behind. She asks you where you want to go. And she seems very pleased that you don’t know.