“Again with this cheap sausage. Couldn’t you buy normal ham? I asked you yesterday. This stuff is impossible to chew. It tastes like pressed cardboard with spices.”
Igor hooked a pale pink slice covered in tomato sauce with his fork and lifted it with disgust, turning it in front of his face as if he were examining some strange insect. He was sitting at the kitchen table in a fresh, neatly ironed T-shirt, smelling pleasantly of expensive aftershave. His face showed the highest level of culinary disappointment.
Natalya froze with her fork raised over her plate.
She had just finished a ten-hour shift, spent an hour packed into a crowded bus, stopped at the supermarket to buy discounted groceries, and then spent the last forty minutes standing by a hot stove to make dinner. Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders like a lead shell, and her feet throbbed as if a steamroller had passed over them.
She looked at her hands, at the chipped nail polish, then shifted her gaze to her well-groomed, rested husband.
“Normal ham costs eight hundred rubles for half a kilo, Igor,” she said evenly, without any emotion. “This sausage was two hundred fifty on the yellow discount tag. That’s a difference of five hundred fifty rubles. And I saved that money today so we would have something to pay the electricity bill with at the end of the month.”
“So what now, we’re supposed to poison ourselves with fake meat?” Igor snapped, throwing his fork onto the table. “I spent the whole day working on my résumé, monitoring the market, analyzing job openings. My brain is boiling. I need quality protein, Natasha, not soy with coloring. I’m not asking for marbled beef steaks. Just a piece of decent meat. That is a basic human need!”
Natalya slowly put down her fork.
She did not argue. She did not remind him that her logistics salary was not unlimited. She did not list the fact that from that same money she paid for utilities, groceries, cleaning supplies, and his unlimited internet.
She simply stood up, walked over to Igor, and with one decisive movement took the plate from right under his nose.
“Hey, what are you doing?” he protested, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Put it back. I didn’t say I wouldn’t eat it at all. I only made a comment so that next time you would plan the budget more intelligently and not buy garbage.”
Natalya walked to the sink and pressed the pedal of the trash bin hard with her foot. The plastic lid snapped open.
“The restaurant is closed. The unemployed menu is canceled,” she said in an icy voice and turned the plate over.
The hot pasta, mixed with sauce and chopped sausage, fell into the trash bag with a wet, squelching sound, landing on top of potato peels.
Igor opened his mouth. His face instantly flushed with red spots of outrage. He lunged forward and almost knocked over the chair.
“Are you out of your mind? I’m hungry! I haven’t eaten properly since morning! I was waiting for dinner!”
Natalya dropped the empty plate into the metal sink and slowly turned toward him. Her gaze was heavy, focused, and utterly merciless.
“You sit on my neck and dare to complain that I bought the wrong sausage? You should be kissing my feet because I feed you, you freeloader. From today on, you’ll eat plain buckwheat until you bring home your first paycheck.”
Igor jumped to his feet. His nostrils flared with anger.
“What kind of market-woman tone is that, Natasha?” he tried to regain control with his usual bossy intonation. “I am not a freeloader. I’m going through a temporary career crisis. I’m looking for a position as head of a logistics department, not some errand boy. And instead of supporting your man during a difficult time, you make a scandal over a piece of cheap meat. You’re being petty and stupid.”
“Temporary is when a person is out of work for a month. Maybe two,” Natalya replied, cutting every word sharply. “A year is no longer temporary, Igor. It’s a lifestyle. For twelve months, exactly twelve, you have been in your so-called difficult period. You wake up at noon, drink coffee that I bought, wash yourself with shower gel that I bought, then sit at the computer and watch YouTube videos while calling it market analysis. Your crisis is costing me too much. I walk around in winter boots that leak so you can lecture me about quality protein.”
“I can’t go work as a courier or a shop assistant!” His voice broke into a shrill note. “I have a specialized higher education! Management experience! If I accept a low-level position with a pathetic salary now, I’ll ruin my résumé forever. You simply don’t understand how modern recruitment works.”
“The year-long gap is what’s ruining your résumé,” Natalya shot back, not moving even a millimeter. “In a whole year, you haven’t been invited to one proper interview. Not one. And do you know why? Because you’re a lazy coward. You hide behind high standards just so you don’t have to lift your backside off the sofa.”
“Shut up!” Igor barked, clenching his fists. “You don’t understand anything about my field!”
“But I understand math very well. There are three packs of the cheapest grain sitting on the cabinet shelf. That’s your food for the next few days. I’m giving you exactly one week. Seven days. If by next Monday you haven’t found work, whether sweeping streets as a janitor or loading boxes in the warehouse around the corner, I’ll put your things out in the stairwell.”
“You have no right!” Igor pointed a finger at her. “This is our family. I’m your lawful husband.”
“My husband earned money and shared responsibility with me. You are a tenant who stopped paying rent. The apartment belongs to me, so yes, I have every right. Your time starts now, Igor.”
Natalya turned back to the sink, picked up a sponge, and turned on the cold water. The old refrigerator in the corner hummed steadily, as if confirming her words.
“And now leave the kitchen,” she said over her shoulder as she began scrubbing sauce from the discarded plate. “I want to finish eating my cheap food in peace.”
“Don’t touch that. That’s my breakfast for work. Put it back.”
Natalya stood in the kitchen doorway with her arms crossed. It was two in the morning. She had woken up to soft, sneaking noises: the creak of the refrigerator door and the rustle of packaging. She had not turned on the light. The streetlamp outside was enough, casting deathly pale stripes through the curtain and pulling her husband’s silhouette out of the darkness.
Igor froze with a sandwich halfway to his mouth.
In one hand he held a piece of bread generously spread with processed cheese. In the other was a stick of smoked sausage that Natalya had bought for a colleague’s birthday, so she could bring something to the table instead of contributing money. He had not even bothered to slice it. He was biting straight from it like a savage.
“Are you spying on me?” he hissed with his mouth full, hurriedly swallowing a half-chewed bite. “Are you a prison guard now? Do you lie awake dreaming of starving me to death?”
“I see you stealing food,” Natalya answered calmly, walking into the kitchen and flipping the light switch.
The bright light hit Igor’s eyes, making him squint. The table was a mess: crumbs, an opened jar of expensive coffee she had hidden deep in the cabinet, and the same pot of buckwheat.
The porridge had been untouched for three days. A dry, cracked crust had formed on top. It looked gray and lifeless, just like their marriage.
Igor finally swallowed and looked at his wife defiantly. There was no guilt in his eyes — only irritation and a childish, spoiled resentment.
“I’m not stealing, Natasha. I’m taking food in my own home. This is absurd. You’ve turned into some petty market vendor counting every coin and every gram. I’m ashamed of you. Ashamed that my wife has sunk to this level of cruelty.”
“You’re ashamed?” Natalya walked to the table, picked up the coffee jar, and deliberately screwed the lid back on. “I’m ashamed that my husband, a healthy thirty-five-year-old man, secretly stuffs his face at night because during the day he proudly turns his nose up at normal food. What’s wrong with buckwheat? It’s fresh. Or at least it was three days ago.”
“I can’t eat plain grain!” Igor threw the half-eaten sandwich onto the table. The cheese landed butter-side down, leaving a greasy mark on the tablecloth. “It gives me heartburn. I need vitamins and fats. I can feel my memory getting weaker, my concentration dropping. How am I supposed to pass interviews if my hands are shaking from hypoglycemia? Did you think about that? Or do you not care about my health?”
“Interviews?” Natalya let out a bitter laugh. “What interviews, Igor? Yesterday I checked the browser history. You watched a gaming stream for three hours, then read football news, then slept. The only thing you’re passing is levels in your tank game.”
“That’s called emotional recovery!” he exploded, jumping up from the chair. “I’m not a robot. I need to switch off so I don’t burn out completely. You, with your primitive office job, will never understand how the mind of a person engaged in intellectual work functions. Logistics is schemes, numbers, brainless execution. I’m a strategist. A manager. I need inspiration. I need resources.”
Natalya silently watched him.
Before, those speeches had made her doubt herself. Maybe she really did not understand. Maybe he truly needed time and a special atmosphere.
But now, looking at the greasy stain on the tablecloth and the gnawed sausage stick, she did not see an unrecognized genius in front of her. She saw an ordinary parasite.
“Your resources cost me thirty thousand a month just for food,” she said dryly. “Plus five thousand for utilities. Another two thousand for internet, which you use for your recovery. That’s nearly forty thousand. Two weeks of my hard labor. Do you understand that you are eating half of my life? Literally. I work for you. Not for us. Not for our future. For you. So you can play games and talk about higher things.”
“You’re throwing a piece of bread in my face…” Igor shook his head, acting deeply disappointed. “How low. In normal families, when one person has problems, the other gives support. They don’t set conditions and count expenses. You’re mercenary, Natasha. All you have in your eyes is a calculator. Where is your femininity? Where is your support? I will find a job. I’ll get a position with a salary three times higher than yours. And what will you say then? How will you look me in the eyes?”
“When you find it, we’ll talk,” Natalya cut him off. “Until then, the rules stay the same.”
She took the sausage from the table, wrapped it in a bag, and put it back into the refrigerator. Then she picked up the coffee jar.
“I’m taking this with me in my bag. The sugar too. You have tea — the cheapest tea bags. I’ll buy bread by half a loaf and bring it home in the evening. If you eat my dinner or lunch, I’ll put a lock on the fridge. I’m not joking, Igor. I’ll buy a chain and a padlock. And you’ll look like a complete idiot in front of your friends if they happen to come by.”
“You’re sick…” Igor whispered, staring in horror at her calm, determined face. “You’re a psychopath. You need treatment. You know this is domestic abuse, right? Economic abuse!”
“Abuse is forcing me to work for two while you wear out your pants on the sofa,” Natalya said, taking a cloth and wiping the greasy stain off the table. Her movements were sharp and mechanical. “That’s it. Conversation over. Eat buckwheat or drink tap water. Good night.”
She turned and headed toward the exit. In the doorway, she stopped without looking back.
“And by the way, Igor. Tomorrow half of your deadline is gone. Three days have passed. There are five janitor vacancies in our neighborhood. I saw the notices on the entrances. If your pride won’t let you sweep yards, go wash floors at the grocery store. They’re hiring there too.”
“I will not wash floors!” he shouted at her back, his voice shaking with powerless rage. “I didn’t find myself in a garbage dump!”
“Too bad,” Natalya replied, switching off the hallway light. “Judging by your behavior, that’s exactly where you belong.”
She went into the bedroom and shut the door firmly.
Igor remained in the dark kitchen. He could hear the refrigerator humming, the faucet dripping — the one he had promised to fix six months ago and never had. His stomach growled treacherously, demanding more food, but there was none left. On the table, in the moonlight, the pot of dried buckwheat sat like an orphan.
Igor approached it and lifted the lid with disgust. The smell of cold, plain porridge hit his nose and made him nauseous. He slammed the lid back down.
“Bitch,” he whispered into the darkness, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. “Fine. You’ll dance for me yet. You’ll regret speaking to me like that. I’ll show you an economic miracle.”
He grabbed a mug from the table with some unfinished sweet tea in it and, out of spite, threw the contents into the sink. Drops splattered across the clean tiles Natalya had scrubbed over the weekend.
It was a small, nasty revenge, but it brought him a second of relief.
He was not going to surrender. He was not going to humiliate himself by working as a cleaner. He would find a way to make her feel guilty. He would break her stupid blockade, and she would bring him proper food herself, on a plate.
The key turned in the lock with difficulty, as if the apartment itself resisted the return of its owner.
Natalya pushed the door open and immediately grimaced. A wave of stuffy, damp air hit her face, soaked with the smell of something burnt and cheap air freshener.
But worse than the smell was the noise.
The television in the living room was screaming at full volume. Some talk show was on, where people shouted over one another, creating an unbearable chaos.
Natalya dropped her bag onto the shelf and froze.
The hallway light was on. The bathroom light was on. The kitchen light was on too. From the half-open bathroom door came the sound of running water.
“Igor!” she shouted, trying to be heard over the voices from the television.
No answer.
She stepped into the bathroom. The faucet was open all the way. Hot water poured into the sink, overflowing at the edges and rushing into the drain, which could barely handle the pressure. Steam filled the room so thickly that the mirror had fogged over.
Natalya twisted the tap shut with force, feeling cold rage boiling inside her.
The meters. He was deliberately running up the meters.
She walked into the living room.
Igor was lying on the sofa in nothing but his underwear, his legs thrown over the backrest. Empty chip bags, crumbs, and dirty socks were scattered on the floor beside him. He did not even turn his head when she entered. He kept staring at the screen.
“What are you doing?” Natalya walked to the TV stand and yanked the plug from the socket. The screen went black, and in the sudden silence she could hear her own tension buzzing in her ears. “Why did you turn on the water? Why are the lights on in the whole apartment? Are you trying to ruin me?”
Igor slowly sat up, scratching his stomach. His face showed the absolute, impenetrable calm of a man who had declared war on common sense.
“I needed atmosphere,” he drawled lazily, looking at her with cloudy eyes. “I was trying to create a work mood. Creative thinking needs light, space, sound. And the water… the sound of water calms the nerves. You drove me to a nervous breakdown with your ultimatums.”
“Are you mocking me?” Natalya gestured around the room. “You burned through hundreds of rubles of electricity in one evening. You poured cubic meters of hot water down the drain for nothing. While I was breaking my back to buy you that same buckwheat you still haven’t eaten.”
“I can’t eat that filth, I told you,” Igor yawned, deliberately opening his mouth wide. “And in general, Natasha, let’s be honest. You want me to look for work? Fine. I’m looking. But job searching is also work. Household chores are your responsibility. You’re a woman. The keeper of the home. Look what you’ve turned this place into. Dirt, dust, an empty fridge. How am I supposed to focus on my career development strategy in a pigsty?”
Natalya gasped with outrage.
She went into the kitchen, and what she saw there made her stop.
The sink was buried under a mountain of dishes. But it was not just dirty dishes. It was every plate, cup, and pot in the apartment. Grease, dried ketchup, pasta stuck from three days ago. It looked as if he had deliberately dirtied everything just so he would not have to wash even a spoon.
“You were home all day,” she said quietly, feeling her hands tremble. “You couldn’t wash one cup after yourself? You waited for me to come home from work at nine in the evening and stand at the sink?”
Igor appeared in the kitchen doorway and leaned his shoulder against the frame. He looked at her with a smug grin full of triumph.
“I didn’t hire myself out as your maid, sweetheart. We have a partnership marriage, remember? I handle global issues. You handle the current ones. Washing plates is not my level of competence. Primitive labor kills the leader in me.”
“Leader?” Natalya turned to him, squeezing the cloth in her hand so tightly her knuckles whitened. “You’re not a leader, Igor. You’re a parasite. An ordinary household parasite. You don’t work, you don’t help around the house, you only consume resources. You eat my time, my money, my nerves. Did you send even one résumé today?”
“I was studying trends!” he roared, and his fake calm cracked. “Don’t you dare control every step I take. I can’t send résumés into emptiness. I need to prepare the ground.”
“What ground?” Natalya threw the cloth into the sink. Dirty water splashed onto the counter. “You’ve been preparing the ground for a year. In that time you could have learned Chinese or mastered a new profession. But all you learned was how to lie perfectly and make a mess in your own apartment.”
“Don’t raise your voice at me!” Igor stepped closer, looming over her. He was trying to use his height and weight to overpower her, to make her fall silent. “You’re the one to blame. You created an unbearable atmosphere in this house. I’m depressed because of you. Your greed, your petty counting of sausage money — all of it destroys my self-esteem. If you had supported me, I would already be a director.”
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” Natalya looked straight into his eyes. There was no longer fear or pity in her gaze, only cold contempt. “I’m to blame because you’re a lazy nobody? Fine. If I’m such a bad wife, it won’t be hard for you to find a better one. But as long as you’re here, you’ll live by my rules.”
She walked to the table where his favorite mug stood — the only clean thing in the kitchen, apparently kept safe for himself.
“You said washing dishes isn’t your level? Excellent. Then you won’t have clean dishes.”
Natalya picked up the mug and slammed it into the sink on top of the pile of dirty plates. Ceramic shattered with a sharp ringing sound.
Igor jerked as if he had been struck.
“You’re sick…” he hissed. “That was a gift mug!”
“It was my mug, Igor. I bought it. Just like everything in this apartment. And you know what? I’m not washing this. I’ll wash one plate and one fork for myself. You can eat from dirty dishes. Or from your hands. Or straight from the pan like an animal. Since you behave like a pig, you can live in a pigsty.”
“I won’t allow you to treat me like this!” he shouted, his face blotching red. “You’re humiliating a man. You’ll regret this. I’m leaving!”
“The door is there,” Natalya pointed toward the hallway. “Straight ahead and to the right. Need help packing? Or will you go as you are, in your underwear? It’s warm outside. You won’t freeze.”
Igor froze.
He was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. He understood that he was bluffing. He had nowhere to go. His friends had long stopped lending him money. His parents lived in a tiny one-room apartment in another city and wanted nothing to do with his “crises.”
He was trapped inside a cage he had built himself. But admitting that meant losing completely.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he forced through his teeth, changing tactics. Aggression turned into poisonous spite. “This apartment is mine too. I’m registered here. I’ll do whatever I want. I’ll turn on the lights, the water, the music. I’ll invite guests. And you won’t do anything. Because you’re weak. Without me, you’ll howl from loneliness within a week. Who needs you? An old, constantly dissatisfied hag with a miserable salary?”
Those words were meant to hit her where it hurt, to humiliate her as a woman.
But Natalya only smiled bitterly.
“I’d rather howl from loneliness in a clean apartment with a full refrigerator than live with a bedbug drinking my blood,” she said quietly. “You don’t understand, Igor. This is not a quarrel. This is war. And you’ve already lost because you have no resources. You have nothing. Not even pride.”
She turned away and began calmly pulling her small salad bowl out from the mountain of dishes. She washed it under a thin stream of cold water, trying not to look at her husband.
Igor stood behind her for another minute, breathing with anger. He wanted to hit something, smash something, scream. But he had hit a wall of total indifference.
His methods no longer worked.
And from that helplessness, he decided to do the only thing left to him — make things as nasty as possible.
“Fine,” he suddenly said in a perfectly calm, almost cheerful voice that sent a chill down Natalya’s spine. “If it’s war, then it’s war. You don’t want to wash dishes? Don’t. You don’t want to buy food? Don’t. I’ll find a way to get what’s mine. I have methods too. We’ll see how you sing tomorrow.”
He spun around and left the kitchen, deliberately dragging his feet loudly.
A second later, the television in the living room roared again, even louder than before. The walls shook from the bass of some advertisement.
Natalya closed her eyes and leaned both hands against the edge of the sink.
Her head was splitting. She understood this was not over. He was not just lazy. He was vindictive. He had decided to punish her for daring to stop being convenient.
Tomorrow would be the final day of her ultimatum. And judging by his mood, he was preparing something grand. Something meant to break her will completely.
But she would not break.
Under the layer of exhaustion, a cold fire of determination was beginning to burn. She dried the plate, put it in the cabinet, and went to the bedroom, mentally pulling imaginary earplugs from her ears.
Let the television scream. Let the water run.
Tomorrow it would all end.
One way or another.
“Well, why are you standing frozen in the doorway? Come in, hostess, don’t be shy. As you can see, we’re having a board meeting here. Discussing startups and global markets.”
Igor’s voice was slow, loose, and soaked in that special sticky courage alcohol gives to a coward.
He was sitting in the kitchen, sprawled across a chair so heavily that it creaked under his weight. Across from him sat some unfamiliar man — skinny, with shifty little eyes, wearing a stretched-out sweatshirt.
Natalya slowly lowered her bag to the floor.
The heavy smell of alcohol fumes mixed with cigarette smoke hit her nose. They had been smoking out the small window, but the smoke still hung under the ceiling in a bluish cloud.
But she was not looking at the guest. Nor at her husband.
Her gaze was fixed on the round-bellied bottle of cognac standing in the middle of the table among dirty plates with dried buckwheat and sausage scraps.
It was twelve-year-old Hennessy.
A gift from the general director for successfully closing the quarter.
She had saved it for six months. Hidden it in the far cabinet, dreaming that one day she and Igor would open it for a special occasion — an anniversary, or the day he finally found a job.
Now the bottle was three-quarters empty.
“This is Vadik,” Igor said carelessly, waving toward his drinking companion and almost knocking over a shot glass. “An old university friend. Brilliant guy, by the way. Not like some people who can’t see beyond shipping invoices. We’re working on strategy here.”
Vadik gave an uncertain giggle and tried to hide his eyes by staring into his glass. He clearly felt uncomfortable under the heavy, dead gaze of the apartment’s owner.
“Strategy?” Natalya repeated quietly. She walked into the kitchen without taking off her shoes. Dirt from the street remained on the light laminate, but she no longer cared. “A strategy for drinking someone else’s property?”
“Oh, here we go!” Igor rolled his eyes and theatrically threw up his hands. “Vadik, look at her. This is exactly what I told you about. Pettiness. Total pettiness. I’m treating a friend, and she counts grams. Natasha, it’s cognac. It was made to be drunk, not worshiped like an icon. You’re acting like a narrow-minded housewife.”
“That cognac cost ten thousand rubles, Igor,” she said in a flat, emotionless voice. “That’s half of what we spend on food in a month. And you poured it down the throat of a man I’m seeing for the first time in my life, using my last sausage as a snack.”
“I’m not just some man!” Vadik suddenly spoke up, clearly emboldened by the alcohol. “I’m a promising crypto investor, actually. Igor and I are cooking up an idea…”
“Get up and get out,” Natalya interrupted him.
She did not shout. She spoke the way people speak to annoying insects before crushing them with a slipper.
“Both of you.”
“You don’t dare throw out my guests!” Igor slammed his palm on the table. The shot glass jumped, fell, and rolled across the tablecloth. “I live here. I have a right to personal space and socializing. If you don’t like it, go to the bedroom and lock yourself in. Don’t disturb men while they’re talking.”
Natalya stepped right up to the table.
She took the half-finished bottle of expensive cognac.
Igor jerked forward to snatch it from her, but he was too late.
Natalya calmly turned the bottle upside down over the sink. The amber liquid gurgled and vanished into the drain, mixing with dirty greasy water.
“What the hell are you doing, you bitch?” Igor shrieked, jumping up from the chair. His face twisted with rage. “That’s money!”
“That isn’t money. That’s my nerves, melted into glass,” Natalya said, placing the empty bottle on the table with a loud thud. “Vadik, you have exactly thirty seconds to disappear from my apartment. Otherwise I’ll call the police and say you stole valuables. And believe me, they’ll believe me over two drunk unemployed men.”
The “crypto investor” instantly assessed the situation.
The alcohol seemed to evaporate from him. He mumbled something unintelligible, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, and slipped sideways into the hallway without saying goodbye.
The front door slammed.
Igor was left alone.
He stood in the middle of the wrecked kitchen, breathing heavily, looking at his wife with hatred mixed with animal fear. He understood that he had gone too far, but the alcohol demanded that the performance continue.
“So what did you achieve?” he hissed, narrowing his eyes. “You humiliated me in front of a friend? Showed who’s boss in the house? You think I’ll crawl on my knees now? Look at yourself. You’re a gray mouse. Nervous, old, boring. Who needs you except me? I tolerated your rotten character, your greed, your complete lack of taste. I lived with you out of pity.”
“Out of pity?” Natalya gave a bitter smile. “You lived with me out of greed, Igor. Out of convenience. Because I was your feeding trough, your laundry service, and your mommy all in one.”
She turned and went to the bedroom.
Igor staggered after her, continuing to spit insults at her back.
“I’ll find myself a younger, prettier woman tomorrow. One who will appreciate me. One who won’t count pieces of sausage. And you’ll rot here alone with your reports. You’re empty. You’re nobody without me. I gave you the status of a married woman.”
Natalya entered the room and pulled a large wheeled suitcase from the top storage shelf. She unzipped it with a sharp sound like fabric tearing.
“Status?” She began sweeping his things from the shelves and throwing them into the suitcase at random: wrinkled T-shirts, jeans, socks. “The status of being a parasite’s wife? No thanks. I’ve had enough. Your week is over, Igor. You didn’t find a job. You didn’t bring home a single ruble. You didn’t even try. You just drank and waited for me to break.”
“Hey, don’t you dare touch my things!” He tried to snatch a sweater from her, but Natalya pushed his hand away hard. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my apartment.”
“This is my grandmother’s apartment, inherited by me before the marriage,” she reminded him sharply, continuing to pack his junk methodically. “You are nobody here. You have no share, no rights. You’re just a guest who stayed too long.”
“I’ll sue you. I’ll take half the property. I’ll prove I invested in the renovation.”
“The only thing you invested was your backside into the sofa,” Natalya snapped. “Go ahead. Hire a lawyer. Oh, right — you don’t even have money for the metro. What are you going to sue me with, strategist? Vadik’s money?”
She zipped the overstuffed suitcase shut and set it upright. Then she took his laptop from the nightstand and shoved it into his arms.
“Take your tool for ‘finding yourself’ and leave. Right now.”
Igor stood there, pressing the laptop to his chest, and suddenly realized that this was not a game.
This was not another fight after which he could make peace in bed or stay silent for a couple of days.
This was the end.
His cozy world of free food, internet, and a soft sofa was collapsing right before his eyes.
His expression changed. The arrogance vanished, replaced by panic.
“Natasha… wait. What are you doing? We had a little drink, so what? It happens,” he tried to smile, but it came out as a pathetic grimace. “Let’s talk calmly. Tomorrow. I love you. We’re family. I promise, from Monday… honestly, I’ll go to an interview.”
“No, Igor,” Natalya said, rolling the suitcase into the hallway. The wheels thudded hollowly across the floor, beating out the rhythm of the end of their marriage. “There will be no Monday. And there is no family anymore. There is me, and there is a strange man who stinks of alcohol.”
She opened the front door and pushed the suitcase onto the landing.
“Out.”
“Natasha, where am I supposed to go in the middle of the night?” he whined, shifting from foot to foot at the threshold. “I don’t have a single ruble. My phone is dead. Have a conscience. At least let me spend the night.”
“Go to Vadik. Or your mother. Or the train station — it’s warm there and full of other unrecognized geniuses.”
Natalya placed her hand against his back and shoved him firmly out onto the stairwell.
Igor stumbled but kept his balance. He turned around, and his face twisted with malice again. Realizing that pleading did not work, he decided to hurt her one last time.
“Damn you!” he screamed so loudly that the echo spread through the entire building. “You’ll die alone, you useless bitch. I’ll rise. I’ll become rich, and you’ll crawl back to me begging, but I won’t even look in your direction. You’ll regret this.”
“The only thing I regret is the year I wasted and the sausage you ate,” Natalya answered coldly.
She slammed the door in his face.
The lock clicked.
Then the second one.
Then she put on the chain, though she knew he had no keys — she had taken them from his jacket while packing his things.
For a couple more minutes, fists pounded on the door and drunken curses came from the hallway, but Natalya no longer listened.
She leaned her back against the cold metal door and slowly slid down to the floor.
A ringing silence settled over the apartment.
But this was not the kind of silence that crushes.
It was the kind that heals.
The kitchen smelled of alcohol and cheap cigarettes. A mountain of dishes filled the sink. Crumbs lay on the table.
But Natalya knew that tomorrow she would clean it all.
She would wash the floor, air out the rooms, throw out the old sofa.
And she would buy herself two hundred grams of the most expensive ham.
She would eat it alone, in silence and peace, enjoying every bite of her life — now truly hers alone.