Timur’s workshop smelled like… well, it doesn’t really matter what it smelled like. What mattered was the raccoon sitting in a cage by the window—it had been rescued that morning from a fifth-floor balcony—and was now staring at Veronika as if it knew something she didn’t. Timur was wiping his hands with a towel and giving her the kind of sly, lopsided grin usually reserved for selling used cars—or other people’s secrets.
“Why don’t you have a seat,” he said. “This will only take about three minutes.”
“I’ll manage standing,” Veronika replied. “I have a client at three, and they need to pick an iris color. The person wants eyes, not your foreplay.”
“Ah, yes, you make eyes for people,” Timur tossed the towel onto his workbench. “Nice. You give people what they’re missing. But do you know what you’re missing yourself?”
***
“Timur, I’m warning you nicely,” Veronika shifted her bag to the other shoulder. “If you say something stupid right now, I’m putting your raccoon on your head.”
“He bites.”
“So do I.”
He laughed, took out his phone, and started scrolling. He took his time, savoring it. Veronika stood there silently counting to thirty to stop herself from grabbing it out of his hands.
“Take a look,” Timur turned the screen toward her.
She looked. Then she looked again, because her mind tried to convince her this wasn’t what it seemed. But it was. Ruslan was lying on a bed in just his underwear, and next to him, nearly as undressed, was a girl with a very recognizable profile.
“Alisa,” Veronika said flatly. “Egor’s sister.”
“That’s the one,” Timur nodded. “She’s a wigmaker, by the way. Makes theater wigs. Just gave my brother a wig, and he’s loving it.”
“How many are there?”
“Forty-two. Want me to send them all?”
“Go ahead,” Veronika said.
***
She walked outside and continued on foot—she couldn’t bear to be packed into a bus with people, especially right now. Her phone felt like a brick in her pocket. Forty-two photos! A whole exhibition, honestly.
Her thoughts weren’t about Ruslan. They were about Timur. Here was a guy who normally catches snakes in basements and rescues raccoons from balconies—now he’d caught his own brother, and was parading the catch to his sister-in-law like a cat bringing a dead mouse to your doorstep.
“Why?” she asked out loud, scaring off a flock of pigeons. “What was the point of that?”
The pigeons didn’t reply. Pigeons rarely do—that’s why Veronika respected them.
To mess with her? He never really liked her—she never laughed at his jokes or gave him seconds at dinner. To get back at his brother? He and Ruslan had harbored old grudges since childhood, about things like bikes and split lips. Or is it the third, most boring thing—personal gain?
Her phone vibrated. The screen flashed ‘Mother.’
“Yes.”
“Veronika, are you sitting down?” Lyudmila Sergeevna’s voice sounded like she was about to announce the end of the world—or a visit from relatives, which in her book was basically the same thing.
“I’m walking.”
“Polina is coming! This Thursday! With her husband, for a week!”
“Great,” said Veronika. “We haven’t seen each other in five years—just enough time to forget what she looks like and be surprised all over again.”
“Why are you so prickly?”
“Swallowed a hedgehog,” Veronika replied. “Don’t worry, I’ll digest it.”
***
Polina got married five years ago and, in the very same month, moved with her husband to another city—eight hundred kilometers away. Honestly, it was the smartest decision anyone in their family had ever made. At one point, Veronika had wanted to leave too. Not because of her mother—her mom was quiet and only ever got involved in her life on rare occasions.
What she really wanted was to escape Ruslan’s relatives. His mom, Raisa Pavlovna, would drop by ‘just for half an hour’ and then stay till midnight, rearranging the towels in the cupboard her own way. Then there was Timur and his raccoons and sly comments. And Egor, Ruslan’s childhood friend, who’d crash at their place on Fridays, only leaving on Sundays—and somehow always left with someone else’s mood.
They treated her apartment like it was the local interest club. The club’s name might as well have been ‘Let’s talk about Veronika while she’s making tea’.
Her phone buzzed again. ‘Zhanna.’
‘Listen up and don’t argue,’ Zhanna said instead of hello. ‘I’m at the dacha. The sauna’s heating, the wine’s bought, and there aren’t—and won’t be—any guys around. Come over.’
‘Zhanna…’
‘Today I chased two gulls off the runway and nearly lost a hawk,’ Zhanna went on. ‘My nerves are frayed like a falconer’s jess. I need someone who knows how to keep quiet with purpose. That’s you.’
‘I can do that,’ Veronika replied. ‘Today I’m especially good at it.’
‘So you’re coming.’
‘I’m coming.’
***
It was the best thing that could have happened on such a horrible day. Veronika opened her chat with her husband and typed three words: ‘Going to Zhanna’s, staying overnight.’
His reply came four minutes later. ‘Okay.’
Just one word. No ‘when will you be back,’ no ‘what about dinner,’ not even a question mark to show he cared. Just ‘okay.’
‘More than okay,’ Veronika muttered to her phone and headed for the bus stop.
***
Zhanna’s sauna was small, crooked, and mean—much like its owner. It heated up fast, cooled down fast, and burned anyone inside without mercy. They sat on the top bench, red as boiled crayfish, while Zhanna smacked her own shoulders with a birch broom like she was punishing herself for something.
‘Well,’ Zhanna finally said. ‘Spill it. You showed up with the look of someone who’s already dug a mental grave for someone.’
‘Didn’t dig it. Just marked it out with stakes.’
‘For who?’
‘My husband.’
Zhanna set down her broom and sat.
‘Alright. Let’s go to the changing room—I won’t hear you in here, and this is something I need to hear every sigh of.’
***
The changing room was cool and dim, lit by a single bulb hanging from a coiled cord. Zhanna poured them berry juice, since they’d decided to save the wine for later.
‘Ruslan has a lover,’ Veronika said. ‘Alisa. Egor’s sister.’
‘Wait—the same Egor who lives on your couch every weekend?’
‘That one. He brought her over a couple of times. Real quiet, makes wigs, eyes always cast down. I remember thinking—what a shy girl.’
‘Shy girls,’ Zhanna said, ‘are just the ones who don’t broadcast it. Hold on. How do you even know? Did he tell you himself?’
‘Timur told me. His brother.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Zhanna said, setting her glass aside. ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh. You realize “my brother said” isn’t proof, right? It’s a whole genre. Relatives make up stories about each other that would make authors blush. Maybe he was just testing your nerves.’
‘Maybe,’ Veronika agreed. ‘But nerves come with pictures.’
***
She placed her phone on the table, screen up, and nudged it toward her friend.
Zhanna scrolled for about two minutes. Her expression became more and more businesslike, as if she was writing up a report on a bird hitting an airplane.
“Alright,” she finally said. “This isn’t a ‘maybe.’ Here’s the bed, here he is in his underwear, here she’s almost naked, and just look at this pose—people get their hands slapped for less in polite company. How many of these are there?”
“Forty-two.”
“Forty-two,” Zhanna echoed. “You know, your guy is ridiculously photogenic. He makes mannequins, but he could pose for them himself.”
“That’s professional distortion,” said Veronika. “He acts like a mannequin in real life, too—looks good on the outside, but completely hollow inside.”
“Don’t get all philosophical, I’m in the bath.”
***
Zhanna scrolled all the way to the end, went back to the first photo, and suddenly frowned.
“Wait. Who took these?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly that. This is all from above, from the doorway. These aren’t selfies. Someone was standing there, calmly taking lots of photos, put real effort into it. Forty-two shots, Veronika! This wasn’t someone ‘accidentally catching them.’ This was a photoshoot.”
Veronika grabbed the phone and looked again. Sure enough—the angle was the same in every shot, as if someone was leaning against the doorframe, working the camera.
“So that means Timur was there.”
“Or Timur got these from the person who was actually there. Look, the real question is: what does he gain from this? People don’t just spread dirt for no reason. They do it for money, for position, for revenge, or just for kicks.”
Veronika shrugged.
“I don’t know. I never liked him, and he never liked me. We’re like two cats fighting for space on the same radiator.”
***
“Then think,” said Zhanna. “What does your husband have that his brother wants, but can’t get while his brother is married?”
“Ruslan doesn’t have anything. The workshop is rented, the car is on a loan, his income depends on orders. No one wants mannequins these days—storefronts switched to holograms and clothes racks.”
“What about you?”
“I have an apartment,” Veronika said slowly. “Grandpa gave it to me right after the wedding. It’s official, all the paperwork done. Grandpa lives with my mom now—he’s got leg and back problems, can’t make it up to the fifth floor.”
Zhanna leaned back against the wall and looked at her friend almost tenderly.
“There’s your missing piece,” she said.
***
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Veronika said, setting her glass down. “The apartment’s mine, a gift. It doesn’t get split in a divorce. Everyone knows that—even people who haven’t read anything more complicated than a kettle manual.”
“Everyone knows,” Zhanna agreed. “And yet, everyone still tries. The main thing is, don’t go home tomorrow screaming ‘I know everything.’ You’ll only save him the effort of making up lies.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“So what are you planning?”
Veronika thought for a moment. The little heater in the next room crackled as it burned down.
“Watch,” she said. “Just watch. You know, I’ve spent twenty years learning to fit a prosthetic so well that no one could tell an eye was fake. This time it’s different: I have a real one, and I’m finally going to use it.”
***
“Beautifully said,” Zhanna approved. “Now say it like a normal human.”
“Plain and simple: I want to figure out what everyone really wants. I can start a scene anytime—scandal will wait, but the truth won’t.”
“Makes sense,” Zhanna said as she poured the last of the fruit drink. “But let’s agree on this: if things get really bad, you call me. Any time. I’ll saddle up my falcon and I’ll be there.”
“And why would you need a falcon?”
“It’s for the image,” Zhanna said. “Men just don’t know what to do when a woman walks into their apartment with a bird of prey.”
Veronika snorted. She really did feel better— not from the wine they still hadn’t opened, but because now her anger had turned into a plan.
***
She returned home a day later, closer to evening. The apartment greeted her exactly as it always had: two rooms, high ceilings, parquet that squeaked in three places, the same old flooring her grandfather had installed, and she could recognize those three squeaks by ear.
Her grandfather had laid that parquet himself, back in ’78. He used to sit at the kitchen table, tap his finger on the wood and say, “Nika, always put the apartment in your name. Love is seasonal, but four walls last all year round.”
Ruslan arrived at eight. He took off his shoes, hung up his jacket, walked into the room and said:
“Oh, you’re back.”
“I’m back,” Veronika agreed. “Did you miss me?”
“Of course I did.”
He even kissed her on the temple. She stood there, counting the seconds until he would mention Alisa. The seconds ran out, but Alisa didn’t come up.
***
They had dinner together. Ruslan told her about an order for twelve mannequins for some mall, which fell through because of the supplier. Veronika listened and watched.
She watched the way he held his fork. How he kept picking up his phone, turning it over, touching it again. How he replied to a message with a single finger and slipped the phone into his pocket, rather than setting it on the table.
“What’s up with you?” he finally asked.
“Nothing. I’m just looking at you.”
“Why?”
“I missed you,” Veronika replied. “You asked, remember?”
Ruslan fell silent, squirmed in his chair, and suddenly his face lit up, like someone who’s finally given their line to say.
***
“Listen,” he said. “Why don’t we sell the apartment?”
Veronika set down her fork. Neatly, calmly, as if she were at the dentist’s office.
“Go on.”
“Why are we still here? Fifth floor, the elevator creaks, upstairs neighbors are always stomping. Out in the country, there’s fresh air! You can walk barefoot on the grass. Your own house, an eight-hundred-square-meter plot, a garage, a gazebo.”
“And a sauna,” Veronika added.
“And a sauna!” Ruslan exclaimed, delighted. “Exactly, a sauna! Yegor doesn’t have one, nobody does, everyone will come to me. Our own steam room, can you picture it?”
“I can,” Veronika said. “I can picture it really vividly.”
***
He kept talking for another ten minutes. About how they almost had the money for land, how all they had to do was ‘make the deal.’ About how an apartment was so last century, and a house was a real asset.
She listened and thought that if it weren’t for the forty-two grand sitting in her phone, she might have melted. She loved grass, loved the coolness of the morning on bare feet, loved the smell of birch branches in the sauna. She’d dreamed of a house her whole life.
That was the worst part: he’d picked the bait to her exact taste. That meant he’d studied her. He’d used his head— not anything else— when he made his plans.
“No,” Veronika said.
***
The word hit the table between them like a wrench.
“No what?” Ruslan asked.
“The apartment’s not for sale. No.”
“Did you even listen to me? I just told you about the fresh air, about the sauna…”
“I heard. I understood everything. No.”
He stood up so sharply that the chair screeched across the parquet.
“Are you serious? I’ve been painting us a future for seven minutes, and all you say is ‘no’— like an answering machine at a clinic!”
“The machines at the clinic just say, ‘No tickets available,'” Veronika clarified. “There’s a difference, you know.”
“Are you kidding me?!”
“Not yet,” she replied. “But it’s a good idea.”
***
Ruslan went into the other room, turned up the TV, and stayed there until midnight. Meanwhile, Veronika washed the dishes, recalling something Zhanna had said: “People don’t just spread nastiness for no reason.”
She wanted so badly to grab her phone and shove the photo—number seventeen—in his face and watch as all the air, along with his hobby for grass and saunas, escaped from him. Once, she even picked up the phone.
But she put it back down.
Because the question was no longer, ‘Is he cheating or not?’ The real question was: why, after six years of never mentioning land, was he suddenly talking about selling her apartment? And what was next on his agenda?
***
Her mother-in-law showed up on Thursday, unannounced, carrying a bag of cookies no one ever ate.
“Nikusia!” Raisa Pavlovna walked right into the room and settled into the armchair like it was hers. “Congratulations! Well done! That’s the right decision!”
“What decision?”
“What do you mean what decision? You’re selling the apartment! Living in a house outside the city is pure happiness. That’s putting down roots, real earth. Not just some concrete box on the fifth floor.”
Veronika slowly sat down across from her.
“Raisa Pavlovna, how do you know we’re selling the apartment?”
***
“Well, Ruslan told me!” her mother-in-law exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “He’s already looking for a plot. Says he found a good one near the highway, but not too close—quiet, and there’s a river nearby.”
“A river,” Veronika repeated. “How lovely.”
“Exactly! I told him, ‘Son, you’ve finally come to your senses.’ Otherwise, you two are living in that place like it’s a dormitory.”
“It’s my apartment, actually.”
“Oh, come on now,” Raisa Pavlovna frowned. “It’s yours, it’s family property. Why are you acting like strangers, always dividing things?”
***
“Raisa Pavlovna,” Veronika said calmly, “last week, I told Ruslan ‘no.’ Point blank. The apartment is not for sale, no deals, no river.”
“What do you mean, not for sale?!”
“Just what I said. With my mouth. My lips. No.”
“But he already found a plot! He already told people!”
“What people?”
“Well… people!” her mother-in-law started turning blotchy with embarrassment.
“Then maybe he should find himself a plot at the cemetery,” Veronika replied. “It’s quiet there too, no river, but at least the neighbors don’t stomp around.”
***
Raisa Pavlovna stood up. She took her bag of cookies with her—petty, but oddly satisfying to watch.
“This is monstrous,” she said. “You don’t talk to your husband’s mother like that.”
“And you don’t talk to your son’s wife like that, either. We’re even.”
“I came to you with an open heart!”
“And I welcomed you with an open door,” Veronika pointed toward the entryway. “Which, by the way, really is open.”
The door slammed shut. The parquet creaked in the third spot, by the threshold.
***
Veronika stood in the silence for about five minutes. Her anger slowly settled, like dust after renovations, and in its place grew a cold, businesslike, almost scientific curiosity.
She decided to call her mother-in-law herself.
“Raisa Pavlovna, I’m sorry. I spoke harshly, and it was wrong. It’s been a hard day, my client was impossible, I lost my temper.”
“There you go,” her mother-in-law quickly softened. “I understand, I’m not a monster.”
“I’ll think about selling. I really will think.”
“Oh, Nikusia!”
***
And at that moment, Veronika started to feel genuinely amused. The kind of wicked amusement you get when you realize you can pull a string and watch something come crashing down from the ceiling.
“You know what?” she said. “Fine. You convinced me. I’ll sell it.”
“You’ll sell it?!”
“I will. Just a little later, I need to get the paperwork sorted, pay off the debts, put everything in order. Give me a month, maybe a month and a half.”
“Smart girl!” her mother-in-law nearly sang. “I’ve always said you’re the sensible one! I’ll call Ruslan right now!”
“Go ahead and call,” Veronika allowed. “Definitely call him.”
***
At that time, Ruslan was at Egor’s place. The pyrotechnician had spread out the layout of tomorrow’s fireworks show on the table and was explaining where the “golden willow” would go, and where the “peonies.”
The phone rang. Ruslan listened for a minute, then straightened up and gave his friend a big thumbs up.
“What?” Egor mouthed silently.
“She agreed,” Ruslan mouthed back, just as quietly, then said into the phone, “Thank you. Yes. I knew you could do it.”
He hung up the phone and stretched until his shoulders popped.
“Well, that’s it,” he said. “We’re underway now.”
***
“Where’s your sister?” Ruslan asked casually.
“Who knows,” Egor didn’t look up from the diagram. “She left this morning.”
Ruslan dialed her number. Alisa didn’t pick up right away.
“Yes, darling.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hairdresser,” she replied. “The stylist is washing my hair right now, it’s not easy to talk.”
“Alright, I’ll call you tonight.”
She hung up and leaned back on her pillow. The stylist washing her hair was lying next to her, staring at the ceiling.
***
“Did you hear that?” Alisa said. “Timur, it’s time for us to stop.”
“Why all of a sudden?”
“Because I take your brother seriously. And he feels the same about me.”
Timur turned his head and looked at her with a long, lazy gaze, the kind you give when life has thrown you all sorts of things—snakes, raccoons, and now this.
“Seriously,” he repeated. “I get it. We fooled around—and that’s that.”
“Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude. I’m just stating the facts,” Timur sat up and started looking for his shirt. “Go ahead, they’re still washing your hair over there.”
***
A few days later, Ruslan came home in a fantastic mood and laid papers out on the table.
“All done,” he said proudly. “I’ve deregistered myself.”
“From the apartment?”
“Where else? Just like you said, so buyers wouldn’t be put off. And I cleared the debts: utilities, rent, there was about six months’ worth of small stuff. Came to around forty thousand.”
“Forty,” Veronika repeated.
“Yeah. But now it’s all clear. Ready to put it up for sale even tomorrow.”
***
She took the receipts and looked at the amounts, the stamps, the mark in his passport. Everything perfectly in order. Everything done fast. He’d never moved that quickly before—not even when going to the corner store for milk.
“Good job,” Veronika said. “Well done.”
“See?” Ruslan smiled as wide as he could. “And you doubted me. So, should I call the realtor?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not selling,” she said calmly. “I changed my mind.”
***
Silence lasted exactly two seconds. Then Ruslan made a sound like a coughing camel.
“Are you serious?”
“I changed my mind. I’m a woman. I have the right. I didn’t like yesterday’s horoscope.”
“What horoscope?! I deregistered myself! I paid the money! You told me to get the apartment ready, and I did!”
“All done,” Veronika agreed. “Thank you. There are no more debts, no unnecessary people on the utility bill anymore. Everything’s clear, just like you wanted.”
He grabbed the back of the chair.
“You lied to me.”
***
“Ruslan,” she said, “the apartment is mine. It was gifted to me. I could’ve had you taken off the registration through court, without needing your consent, your mother’s, or your horoscope. You just saved me four months and a state fee.”
“We’ve been together for six years!”
“For six years, you lived in my grandfather’s apartment. By the way, my grandfather only asked you once if you could change a faucet. You said you’d call a professional.”
“What does the faucet have to do with anything?!”
“Nothing,” Veronika replied. “It just came to mind.”
***
Ruslan’s phone rang three minutes later. He picked up, and the voice on the other end was so loud he didn’t have to strain to hear it.
“Ruslan! Ruslan, what’s happening?! She said she’s not selling?! How can she not sell?!”
“Mom, wait…”
“I sold my three-room apartment! I bought land! I invested almost all my money; I only have eighty thousand left in my savings account!”
Veronika slowly took the phone from her husband’s hand and switched it to speaker, just to be sure.
***
“Raisa Pavlovna,” she said, “let me get this straight: you sold your three-room apartment, bought land, a house is being built. And in this whole plan, what am I?”
“You… you’re family!”
“In this plan, I’m the cash register,” Veronika clarified. “Actually, not even the cash register. The register at least gets some money. I’m the ATM you decided to break open and haul off to the river.”
“How dare you!”
“Easily. I practiced on cats.”
***
The phone erupted in hysterics—panting, talk of a “heart,” and declarations of “I raised all of you.” Veronika listened for about twenty seconds and then hit the disconnect button.
“That was too harsh,” Ruslan said hoarsely. “She has high blood pressure.”
“So do I. Thanks to all of you.”
“Do you realize she’s without a home now?”
“I do. I understand perfectly. Who told her to sell it? Me? Did I call her and say ‘Raisa Pavlovna, hurry to the office and bring your paperwork’?”
He stayed silent.
***
“She’s sleeping at my aunt’s,” Ruslan managed to say. “On a folding bed.”
“Sleeping on a folding bed is great for your back,” Veronika said. “Orthopedists recommend it.”
“You’ve become mean.”
“I’ve become attentive. Those are two different ailments.”
He stepped closer, his face turning unpleasant.
“Put the apartment up for sale. Today.”
Veronika raised her hand and showed him a fig sign. Slowly, carefully, like folding origami.
***
“Here,” she said. “Take it. The only asset you’re entitled to here.”
“You…”
“Finish your sentence.”
He didn’t finish. He grabbed his jacket and rushed out, slamming the door so hard that the shot glasses in the cabinet rattled.
Gone is gone. Veronika stood still, listened to the silence, and realized all of a sudden that she liked it.
***
All evening she walked around the apartment, gathering his things.
It turned out to be almost meditative: shirts from the closet. Razor from the bathroom. Three chargers, two of which for who knows what. A dumbbell bought four years ago that had since served as a doorstop.
She carried everything to the guest room and piled it up on the sofa. The pile was pretty impressive—higher than the backrest and leaning to the left.
“Well, would you look at that,” Veronika said aloud. “Listening to you talk, anyone would think you don’t own a thing.”
***
Saturday started with Ruslan coming back. He walked in like a general returning from a night on the battlefield, a plan already hatched in his mind.
“Alright,” he declared as soon as he entered. “I’ve found a buyer. The deal is set for tomorrow at eleven. Are all your documents in order?”
“They’re perfect.”
“Great. Make sure to bring your passport, the statement, and…”
“Ruslan.”
“What?”
“Go check the guest room,” Veronika told him. “They’re waiting for you there.”
***
He went. She heard him pause in the doorway, then give a short, angry, condescending snort.
“Funny,” he said loudly. “Really funny. You set up a whole theater.”
Veronika didn’t respond. She stood in the room next to the table, where his old, heavy laptop sat on a stand—still sporting a sticker from some exhibition on its lid.
Ruslan returned, sat down, flipped open the laptop, and pressed the power button. The fan whirred to life, booting up. Loading bar. Logo. Desktop.
And there, full screen on the desktop, was a photo of him. In bed. In his underwear. With Alisa.
***
“Honey,” Veronika called from the doorway, “there’s an album too, in the corner. Forty-two pictures. Take a look. I had no idea you were so photogenic.”
Ruslan didn’t move. He stared at the screen as if it were showing the weather forecast for the apocalypse.
“Where from,” he finally asked.
“Little birds brought them. I have a friend who works with birds.”
“Veronika, where did you get these?!”
“Why do you care,” she shrugged. “What matters is the quality. Good lighting, decent composition. The cameraman did a great job.”
***
He turned in his chair. His face was ashen, like an unpainted mannequin.
“How much do you know?”
“Three weeks.”
“Three weeks,” Ruslan repeated. “You knew for three weeks. You were making cutlets, asking me about bathroom tiles… You were playing with me!”
“I was,” Veronika agreed. “Like a cat with a mouse. But you know what’s funny? The mouse came to the paws itself and asked, ‘Do you want to buy my little hole?'”
“You’re a monster.”
“I’m the owner of the apartment,” she replied. “Sometimes that’s the same thing.”
***
His phone screeched in his pocket. He grabbed it so fast he nearly dropped it.
“Yes!”
“Ruslan!” Alisa was practically slicing the air with her words. “I just got something! I just got a photo! From an unknown number!”
“What photo…”
“Ours! It’s cropped, nothing too bad, I’m in bed and you’re next to me, technically it’s all within the lines… but I know! And he knows! He stared at me for ten minutes saying nothing!”
“Who ‘he’?”
“Who do you think!” she snapped. “That’s it, I can’t, I can’t.”
Dial tone.
***
Ruslan let his hand with the phone fall to his side. The phone immediately rang again.
“Mom?”
“What is this?!” Raisa Pavlovna was breathing heavily into the receiver, like a pumping machine. “What is this filth someone sent me?! Who is that naked woman?!”
He opened his mouth and shut it again. So she got it too.
“Mom, I…”
Dial tone.
He ended the call, got up and rushed into the guest room.
***
Veronika was sitting on the floor stuffing things into bags. With her foot, she pressed down on rolled-up jeans, packing them tighter so there’d be space for another couple of shirts.
“Oh,” she said without looking up. “Help me out, please. I don’t have enough bags, and look, there’s a pile left. If you hop on top and pack it down, it’ll fit more. You’re heavier anyway.”
Ruslan walked over, grabbed the nearest bag and dumped it onto the floor. Then the second one. Then the third, which split at the seam, sending shirts scattering across the parquet.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Do you hear me? I’m not going anywhere.”
***
“Oh yes, you are,” Veronika got up and brushed off her hands. “You’ll leave just like that. You are nobody here, legally you’re just air. You checked yourself out, remember? Walked out on your own two feet.”
“This is my family! This is my home!”
“This is my apartment. And by the way,” she looked at him almost friendly, “I filed for divorce this morning. Through the app. You’ll get a notification, check and confirm it, don’t drag your feet, there’s a deadline.”
“You filed?…”
“I filed. It goes fast if there are no kids and nothing to split. And we have nothing to split.”
***
He started shaking. He stood amidst the spilled shirts realizing that the situation hadn’t just spun out of control—it had, turned around, and laughed in his face.
Everything was supposed to go so smoothly. Quietly sell, quietly move out, quietly build a house on the land Yegor found through a connection. Then quietly move in there, without Veronika.
But then his mother got involved. Nobody asked her to. Nobody made her sell her three-room place, invest every penny, buy land where there isn’t even a road yet. Now she’s on a camp bed at her aunt’s, and the land is just a rectangle of mud with stakes.
“You knew,” he said. “You knew and kept quiet. Bitch. How could you keep quiet?”
***
“Easily,” Veronika picked up one of his shirts and folded it in half. “I’m generally pretty quiet. Didn’t you notice over six years?”
“You made me dinner! You sat across from me and stared!”
“I stared,” she nodded. “I observed. It’s my job, actually—to study how things look when they’re real, so I can recreate them exactly… only empty inside.”
“Don’t get smart!”
“Don’t shout.”
He ended up shouting anyway—something long-winded and angry about her grandpa, her apartment, how she used everyone her whole life.
She walked up and slapped him across the cheek. Loudly, with her palm.
***
He fell silent, standing there holding his face like a sulky schoolboy.
“You’d better keep quiet,” Veronika said. “Otherwise all forty-two grand will be public. Your buddy Yegor, your mutual friends, clients, and of course, Alisa’s fiancé—they’ll all see.”
Ruslan blinked.
“What fiancé?”
Veronika looked at him carefully—then burst out laughing. She couldn’t help herself.
“Wait. You didn’t know? Seriously? You didn’t know she got engaged? You’re a blind kitten, not a man.”
***
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie? She was wearing a ring in May, then she started taking it off. Yegor told me, ‘my sister’s getting married this fall, if all goes well.’ You were sitting right next to me chewing away.”
“She told me she was single.”
“Of course. And you said you were happily married. You two deserve each other—perfect couple, just a bit cramped in the same lie.”
Ruslan dropped onto the edge of the couch and stared at the floor.
***
Veronika sighed, glanced at the ripped bag, then at the pile.
“Alright.”
She scooped up as much as she could—shirts, a sweater, a jacket, something else—and carried it to the door. Ruslan lifted his head.
“Where are you going?”
She didn’t answer. Opened the front door and dumped everything straight onto the landing by the neighbor’s door.
“What are you doing?!” he jumped up.
“It’s your own fault,” Veronika shrugged. “You tore the bag. I told you, I don’t have many of those left.”
***
He dashed out onto the landing—barefoot, in a worn t-shirt, grabbing his things off the floor as he went. The door quietly closed behind him. The lock clicked shut.
For a second, he just stood there in disbelief. Then he yanked on the handle.
“Open up!”
Silence.
“Open the door right now! I don’t have shoes! I don’t have my documents!”
He kicked at the door, stubbed his toe, and hissed in pain.
***
Suddenly, the door opened. Before he could even feel hope, a suitcase—the familiar gray one with the broken wheel—flew straight into his chest. He staggered backward, hitting the wall with his shoulders.
A bag came flying after. Then two more bags. Then his shoes, tossed carefully, one at a time.
His passport landed on top of everything.
The door shut again.
Ruslan stood in the middle of the hallway, surrounded by his life, now packed into bags, and listened to the sound of the second lock clicking shut from inside the apartment.
***
His phone rang in his pocket. “Mom.”
He answered and yelled first:
“Who asked you to sell the apartment?! Who?! Did I? You rushed out, did everything yourself, and now you’re sleeping on a folding bed!”
Dial tone. She hung up.
He laughed—a short, ugly sound. The phone rang again. “Alisa.”
***
“Yeah.”
“You!” She was crying so hard her words tumbled out. “You and your wife! You ruined my life! He left! He packed up and left—he didn’t even say a word!”
“Alisa…”
“He took the ring! Do you get it? He took back the ring!”
“So you really did have a fiancé,” Ruslan said slowly.
Silence. Then the call ended.
And surprisingly, he felt lighter. For a moment—a single, small, dirty moment—it even felt good.
***
He sat on his suitcase right next to the trash chute and started counting who he should curse first.
His mother—with her plots of land, her stakes, her constant “finally coming to your senses.” Egor—who pawned off the property on him without warning about his sister. Alisa—who led him in circles for half a year, always in charge of the route.
His wife—who knew everything and stayed silent, cooked, asked about the tiles, and simply watched.
And then he remembered Timur.
***
He recalled his brother’s words from a year ago, said around the table, almost as a joke: “If you ever decide to get a divorce, give me a heads up—I’ll be first in line for your wife.”
He remembered the camera angles in the photos. From the door. From above. Calm and deliberate.
He remembered that Alisa was “at the hairdresser’s” that day.
“Bastard,” Ruslan said out loud, and the word came out thin, like wire. “You bastard.”
No matter which direction he pointed his finger, it turned out he was an idiot to everyone. Not just in his own eyes. In theirs.
***
Veronika stood in the hallway and listened. She heard the calls, heard his voice behind the door—first loud, then deflated, then just mumbling.
Then everything went quiet. The elevator hummed, went down, came back up, then left again.
She walked into the living room, sat on the sofa, and picked up her phone.
She opened her contact list.
***
Timur was the first to go onto her block list. Not because he was the most unpleasant—because he betrayed his brother, and betrayers were something she couldn’t tolerate, whether they were strangers or her own family.
Next was Raisa Pavlovna. Then Egor. Then “Egor’s wife.” Then Ruslan’s cousin, the one who visited twice a year and brought complaints each time.
Then it was Aunt Valya, who’s currently crashing on the folding bed. After her came Ruslan.
She scrolled all the way to the end of the list and was surprised: out of all his loud, ever-visiting cousins, who would always stop by ‘just for half an hour,’ there wasn’t a single relative left she wanted to keep in her contacts. Not one.
***
She set her phone down on the table.
It didn’t ring in a minute. Or five. Or even half an hour.
Veronika sat and listened to this new, strange silence—no slamming doors, no casual ‘just for half an hour’ guests, no strangers’ slippers in the hallway, no one discussing her salary or her personality.
She realized an evening could be spent like this. And it wasn’t empty. It was spacious.
***
She took a bottle of wine from the closet—the very one she and Zhanna never got around to opening at the dacha.
She found the corkscrew in the third drawer, right where it always was. The cork came out with a gentle, satisfying pop, as if the apartment itself exhaled.
Veronika poured half a glass, sat down on the couch, and tucked her feet underneath her.
She’d already grieved her husband’s betrayal—three weeks ago, at the bus stop, among the pigeons, in forty minutes. Now, all that was left was to forget.
She sipped her wine and thought about how Polina was arriving Thursday, and she’d need to make up the guest bed—now that the sofa was finally free.