Ksenia walked out of the shopping mall, lugging a bag of notebooks and two cans of coffee, and the first thing she felt was pure frustration at her own legs that refused to move any faster. Eleven hours into her shift, four work sites behind her, and thirty meters of welded seams checked by ultrasound. For the past month, she’d been living in such a blur she couldn’t even remember what color summer was.
“Ksyusha! Ksenia Andreevna, you have to see me!”
A woman stepped toward her from under the awning, dressed in a linen jacket, a tablet tucked under her arm, and sporting a smile so bright it could be her job. Vera Streltsova. The travel agent the Sergeyev family had visited five years in a row.
“I see you,” Ksenia grumbled. “I just can’t believe it’s you. I must be hallucinating from lack of sleep.”
“You disappeared! Completely vanished,” Vera linked her arm through Ksenia’s. “I haven’t heard from you in a year. I thought you’d struck it rich and were flying on your own these days.”
“We’re broke and not flying anywhere at all.”
“That can’t be.”
“It can, Vera. My son’s in ninth grade, has four tutors and a nervous tic. At work, it’s all emergencies, night shifts, and welds that are ‘fine, just scan them one more time.’ Yesterday I fell asleep in the locker room.”
***
Vera steered her over to a bench under the linden tree and sat her down like you would someone who’s not feeling well.
“You guys always flew out at the end of June. Like clockwork. Your anniversary’s the 28th.”
“Fifteen years, it’ll be,” Ksenia snorted. “Crystal, glass—can’t remember. Something breakable.”
“All the more reason!”
“Vera, I don’t even have the energy to pick between two hotels. I’d rather rescan forty meters of pipeline than read reviews about ‘rather poor breakfasts.’”
“You don’t need to read anything. That’s what I’m here for.”
“What I need is someone who can just say, ‘Ksyusha, let’s go.’ But there’s nobody like that at home.”
Vera looked at her carefully, narrowing her eyes the way people do when, after fifteen years in a job, they’ve learned to hear not the words but the pauses.
“Alright. I’ll text you,” she said. “I’ll send you some options. Just point at one.”
“I’ll point,” Ksenia agreed. “If I live that long.”
***
The house smelled like burnt syrniki, and Timofey sat hunched over a book of math problems, looking like someone condemned to hard labor.
“Mom, I don’t get number fifteen.”
“There’s a lot I don’t get too,” Ksenia said, dropping her bag. “Like why you decided to figure that out at nine-thirty at night.”
“Well, because I didn’t try it before now.”
“Makes perfect sense. Deadly sense.”
Artyom stepped out of the other room, wiping his hands on a towel. He was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt with the logo of the calibration center, where for twelve years he had been stamping scales, weights, and pressure gauges. A man who made sure no one cheated anyone else—by profession.
“Why are you so grumpy?” he asked.
“I’m not grumpy. I’m thrifty. I’m saving up my good mood—it’s in short supply these days.”
“Did something happen?”
“I ran into Vera. Streltsova. The one who used to set up our trips.”
Artyom rolled his shoulders awkwardly and sat across from her.
“And?”
“Nothing. She just reminded me that on the 28th, we’ll have been together fifteen years. Asked me where we were going.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told her we weren’t going anywhere, because my head is one big schedule: work checkups, exams, and that elusive moment when I might finally get some sleep.”
Artem paused. Then he finally said something Ksenia had never heard in fifteen years of marriage:
“Let me take care of everything.”
She looked at him the way you look at a machine that’s just given a reading way off the scale.
“Repeat that.”
“I’m saying: I’ll handle the vacation. Hotel, tickets, transfers. Everything.”
“Artem, you only go shopping with a list I print in capital letters. Once, you came back without bread because bread was last on the list and you stopped at the second-to-last line.”
“Funny.”
“I’m not laughing. I’m nervous.”
“I’m serious, Ksyusha,” he said, spreading his arms. “You do everything. Work, home, Timka. Let me do at least one thing right for once.”
And that’s when she agreed. Not because she believed in miracles, but because someone who hasn’t slept in four nights will agree to anything that takes even one task off their plate.
“Fine,” Ksenia said. “You organize it. Just a warning: if you pick a hotel where the only sea we get is on TV, I won’t forgive you.”
“I won’t pick that.”
“And the dates. The twenty-eighth. Not the twenty-ninth, not ‘give or take.'”
“Got it.”
“Two adults. Timka stays with Grandma, he has his own appointments.”
“Yes, I heard you,” Artem said, a touch sharper than necessary.
She didn’t notice at the time. Later, she’d remember his tone about two hundred times.
***
Her mother arrived on Saturday and laid her work folder out on the table—Tamara Ignatievna had worked as a forensic handwriting expert for thirty years, and even retired, she still picked up contract jobs. When she heard the news, she put down her magnifying glass.
“Artem? He’s planning the trip?”
“Mom, don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m clarifying. Is he actually planning it, or just saying he is?”
“He already called someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He said everything’s under control.”
“Ksyusha,” her mother took off her glasses. “A surprise from a man is always a lottery—you buy the ticket, someone else gets the prize. Double-check him.”
“I inspect pipe joints at work. At home, I just want to be a person, not a controller.”
“One doesn’t rule out the other.”
***
Ksenia got frustrated—quietly, in the way only tired women do at home. She took Vera’s business card from her wallet and silently slipped it into her husband’s jacket pocket. Didn’t say a word: let him decide if he wants to call or not. At least he’d have a real agent, not some random website.
Artem found the card in the morning. He turned it over, sniffed, and chuckled.
“Did Gushchina slip this in?” he muttered to himself.
Alyona Gushchina worked in the neighboring department, handled contracts, wore ankle-strap shoes, and for some reason had been sending him collections of hotels by blue waters for the past six months. Artem put the card into his shirt pocket.
He didn’t ask his wife anything about it. That was his first mistake—the kind you’d call an ‘unnoticed defect’ in manufacturing.
***
Vera answered the call at ten in the morning, between two clients.
“Travel agency, Vera speaking, hello.”
“Hello. You came recommended. I need a vacation package for two, end of June, about eight or nine days.”
“Noted. Destination?”
“Somewhere warm. Preferably by the sea.”
“Preferably?” Vera smiled into the phone. “Usually people say ‘definitely.'”
“Well, it doesn’t have to be right on the beachfront. What matters most is that it’s romantic and doesn’t break the bank.”
“Got it. Is it for adults or will there be kids too?”
“Just two adults.”
An hour later, he was already browsing options. Vera suggested a nice spot by the coast, but he declined—it was too expensive. Then a family club came up, but he refused again: “That’s for parents with kids, that’s not for us.” He finally chose a small hotel in the city, three kilometers from the water, with a little balcony and flowers along the railing.
“It’s about a forty-minute walk to the sea,” Vera warned honestly. “Or, you can take the bus.”
“But it’s romantic,” he replied.
“Romantic is when a woman doesn’t have to walk forty minutes in the heat wearing sandals.”
“She’ll understand.”
Vera jotted down two words in her notebook: “she’ll understand.” In fifteen years, she had gotten to know this type. The family travelers always ask about the kids’ pool and the pharmacy. The budget ones ask about the kitchen and laundry. But those who want it “romantic, cheap, and far from people they know”—they always have the same reason.
***
Artyom arrived at the office on Thursday during lunch break, his shirt perfectly ironed and looking like a man about to pull off a great feat.
“Please, have a seat. Sergeev, Artyom Valeryevich?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Passports for both travelers, please.”
He handed over his own. Vera opened her system, entered the surname—and up popped the history: five trips, the Sergeev family, two adults and one child, the last time—three seasons ago.
“Oh, so you’re not a new client,” she said with delight. “You’ve traveled with me before, with your wife. Kseniya Andreevna, right?”
He changed instantly. Not blushing, but going pale—like unpolished metal.
“We… got divorced,” he said.
“Divorced?”
“Yes. A year ago. We separated.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Vera replied in an even tone. “Let me have the other passport, please.”
He handed it over. Gushchina Alyona Sergeevna, thirty-one years old. Vera carefully entered the details, double-checking each letter, and suddenly her throat tightened—because exactly a year ago her own husband told her that “you only live once” and left on vacation with a girl from the sales department. Also, by the way, to a small romantic hotel.
“How will you be paying?” she asked.
“By bank transfer, to your account. Either today or tomorrow.”
“From your card?”
“Doesn’t matter. Someone will transfer it.”
“It matters to me,” Vera said. “I have to list the payer in the contract.”
He hesitated for a second.
“Well… some of my funds are tied up right now. A friend will transfer it.”
“Alright. I’ll wait for the payment, then I’ll confirm your reservation.”
“When exactly will that be?”
“As soon as the money comes in—immediately.”
He left, but Vera sat for another minute, staring at the contract. Two hundred and fourteen thousand rubles. Two adults. City hotel, little balcony, flowers on the railing.
The next morning, the payment arrived. The payment details read: “Payment for contract No.… Payer: Kseniya Andreevna Sergeeva.”
Vera read the line three times. Then she pulled up the scans of both passports on her screen. Then—the loyal customer’s card.
“So, they’re divorced,” she said out loud to the empty office. “But the ex-wife is paying. Out of pure nostalgia, of course.”
She called the accounting department of her own agency and asked them to hold off on confirming the hotel for now. Then she opened the database and found Kseniya’s number.
Her finger hovered over the button. Vera remembered how, a year ago, everyone kept telling her: “Don’t get involved, she’ll handle it herself,” “It’s not your business,” “Maybe they worked it out.” And then she found out that, in her own story, three people knew. They knew—and said nothing.
***
At that moment, Artyom was sending a message:
“Everything’s paid for. We’re flying on the 28th. The hotel is a dream, balcony full of flowers.”
A minute later came the reply: “You’re my hero. Already packing my suitcase.”
That evening he came home, took off his shoes, and walked into the room where Ksenia was helping their son with trigonometry.
“So, what’s going on with the vacation?” she asked, not looking up.
“The request is being processed.”
“Processed by whom?”
“The hotel. We’re waiting for confirmation. There’s a process.”
“Artyom, I’ve done this five times. The confirmation comes within an hour.”
“Then they’re just busy,” he cut her off. “Can you just not interfere? I told you: it’s a surprise.”
“I can,” she said. “I’ll even be surprised.”
***
Ksenia was surprised two days later.
Vera called on Wednesday at seven thirty in the evening, just as Ksenia was walking from the factory gate toward the bus stop, carrying her defectoscope case over her shoulder.
“Hey, Ksyusha. Can you talk?”
“I can. If it’s about trips—then I can’t.”
“It is about trips,” Vera said. “And you’ll have to.”
“Ver, I’m exhausted.”
“Ksyusha. Your husband ordered a trip from me. For two. For the 28th of June.”
Ksenia stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Well… yeah. He’s organizing it. It’s a surprise.”
“It’s a surprise,” Vera agreed. “Except you’re not the second traveler in the contract.”
There was silence on the line for four seconds.
“Repeat that.”
“Gushchina Alyona Sergeevna, born in ’31— I mean, she’s thirty-one. He brought me her passport himself. With his own hands.”
“That’s a colleague,” Ksenia said slowly. “She’s from the contracts department.”
“Then they must have very close cooperation.”
“Vera, do you realize what you’re saying?”
“I do. You know, I’ve been filling out paperwork for more than a year. And honestly, I’d have kept quiet, Ksyusha, I really would have, if not for one detail.”
“Which one?”
“The money for the trip came from your account. Two hundred fourteen thousand. The payer—Sergeeva Ksenia Andreevna.”
Ksenia set the case down on the asphalt. A bus drove by, blowing hot air over her.
“I transferred it using the details he sent,” she said in a hollow voice. “I didn’t even check. I was in the middle of a tank inspection report.”
“Got it.”
“What did he tell you? How did he explain why I’m not going?”
Vera was silent.
“Talk,” said Ksenia.
“He said you two got divorced a year ago.”
“What?”
“Divorced. ‘Separated,’ to be exact. I asked about you, since you were in my system. He turned pale and blurted that out.”
Ksenia laughed with no joy.
“Divorced. Wonderful. So who’s paying him? The ghost of his ex-wife?”
“I asked myself that too.”
“Vera, do you have everything? The contract, passport details, scans?”
“Everything. The application, all the email exchanges. His signature on the form.”
“Don’t delete anything.”
“Ksyusha,” Vera said cautiously. “What are you going to do now?”
“Work,” Ksenia answered. “In my field. You know, my job is to find cracks where the surface is perfectly smooth and painted over.”
***
She didn’t go home, but to her mother’s place. Tamara Ignatievna opened the door, glanced at her daughter, and silently disappeared into the next room for her magnifying glass—as if she’d known she’d need it.
“Tell me everything.”
Ksenia spoke in the even tone of someone dictating a report of non-compliance.
“Alright,” her mother said. “First: which account did the money leave from?”
“From my debit account. The payroll one.”
“Second: there was a savings account for Timofey. The one your father and I had been saving into.”
“It’s there. Two hundred eighty.”
“Check it.”
Ksenia opened her banking app. Her fingers worked quickly, on autopilot, just like at work.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“One hundred eighty was withdrawn. On the eighteenth.”
“By whom?”
“It says here: early partial withdrawal, order… by power of attorney.”
“What power of attorney?” Tamara Ignatievna straightened up. “Did you give him one?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mom, in fifteen years I’ve never signed a single document without reading it first. Occupational hazard.”
Her mother sat down across from her and placed her hands—dry, with short nails, hands of someone who spent thirty years studying handwriting—on the table.
“Here’s what you’re going to do. Tomorrow, you’ll get an account statement and a copy of the bank order. As a client, that’s your right. Bring them to me.”
“You think he…”
“I don’t assume anything. I work with samples. But if he touched someone else’s savings account under your name, he’s not just a womanizer. He’s rotten to the core.”
“Mom, that’s a criminal offense.”
“Yes,” Tamara Ignatievna replied calmly. “It is.”
“He has to pass certification. He’s an inspector. He stamps and signs the documents people get billed from.”
“All the more reason for his employer to take an interest.”
***
On Thursday, Ksenia took the day off. The bank handed her a copy of the order: form, date, amount, a big loopy signature that looked an awful lot like her own.
Tamara Ignatievna put the document under the lamp, to the side—four examples of her daughter’s actual signature: a loan agreement, a card application, a car power of attorney.
“Look here,” she said twenty minutes later. “Starting stroke. Yours goes up, short. Here, it’s a long swing, exaggerated. Next: your ‘K’ doesn’t link to the following letter. Here, it does. And pressure: you write even, no heavy strokes, but this one’s got tremor in the oval.”
“So it’s a forgery.”
“So, as a specialist, I’ll conclude someone copied your signature. And yes, Ksyusha: he didn’t do it well. He was rushed.”
Ksenia stared at the paper, feeling her anger cool and sharpen into something useful—almost businesslike.
“Mom. He took our son’s money. For a vacation with another woman. And he took another two hundred fourteen from me directly.”
“Exactly.”
“And he lied to me for two days, telling me ‘they’re reviewing the application.’”
“Three days,” her mother corrected. “You said so yourself.”
“You know what’s the most disgusting part?”
“What is it?”
“That he invited me to ‘relax.’ He actually said: ‘Let me do at least one good thing.’ And I believed him. Me—the one who finds flaws under three layers of paint by ultrasound.”
“There’s no device for husbands,” Tamara Ignatievna said dryly.
***
On Friday morning, Ksenia arrived at the agency. Vera met her at the door, locked the office, and laid everything out on the table: the contract, passport scans, messages, and the payment receipt.
“What do you want to do?”
“First, let me ask: can you cancel the booking?”
“I can. The payer has to file a request—and that’s you. There will be a penalty, though. The hotel is already confirmed and the tickets are non-refundable, so you’ll lose about twenty-five percent.”
“Let it be twenty-five percent. Where does the rest go back?”
“To the same account it came from. Which means yours.”
“And if he shows up later and causes a scene?”
“Let him,” Vera shrugged. “The contract is with him, but you made the payment. Plus, I have his written statement where he mentions he’s divorced. Do you know what that means?”
“What?”
“It means, Ksyusha, that he dug his own grave.”
“Ver, I want you to cancel both. His and hers.”
“Both?”
“Both. Not just half. Not ‘keep his, remove hers.’ Cancel everything.”
“What if she decides to go on her own?”
“Let her pay for herself. I’m not a charity sending someone else’s mistress to a tropical beach.”
Vera nodded and started typing away on the keyboard.
“Cancellation dates are recorded. I’ll send you the refund calculation by email. The money will be credited within five business days.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing this for you,” Vera smirked. “I’m doing it for the fool from a year ago, to whom nobody told anything.”
***
Ksenia left the agency at one in the afternoon and called her husband.
“Yeah, Ksyusha,” he answered cheerfully. “I’m at the site, checking the scales at the hypermarket.”
“How’s our vacation coming along?”
“Everything’s on track. They promised confirmation by Monday.”
“Got it. You know, I was at the bank this morning.”
There was a pause. It was short, but Ksenia could hear everything in it.
“Why?” he asked.
“I requested a statement. From Timka’s savings account. I wanted to see if there’s enough for the courses in August.”
“And?”
“It’s minus one hundred eighty.”
***
“That…” he coughed. “That’s temporary. I’ll return it.”
“You will, I’m sure. But what I really want to know right now is—what document did you use to withdraw it?”
“Well, there was… a power of attorney.”
“From whom?”
“Ksyusha, let’s talk at home.”
“From whom, Artyom?”
“From you,” he finally said. “You signed it.”
“I didn’t sign it.”
“You did, you just don’t remember, you were on shifts…”
“Artyom. My mother compared that signature to four of my real ones today. She’s been doing this for thirty years. Do you know what her conclusion is?”
Silence.
“A forgery by another person,” Ksenia said. “There’ll be a written report, with samples, with pictures. Very official.”
He exploded—the way people do when they’re caught:
“Are you spying on me?! Did you get your mom involved?! This is outrageous!”
“Outrageous is taking money from a child’s savings.”
“I’ll return it in a month!”
“With what? You already spent two hundred fourteen of mine in June. On the vacation package.”
“On our vacation!”
“On yours,” Ksenia corrected him. “Gushchina Alyona Sergeevna. You brought her passport yourself. Put it right on Vera Streltsova’s desk.”
The silence on the other end became heavy, almost sticky.
“Ksyusha,” he finally said in a different, sly tone. “It’s not what you’ve been told.”
“Nobody told me anything. They showed me the contract.”
“She means nothing to me! Her vacation days were about to expire, she asked for help with the booking, so I made the reservation in my name to get my loyal customer discount…”
“Loyal customer discount,” Ksenia repeated. “Which you got by claiming to be divorced. Brilliant. You managed to be married and single at the same time, depending on who’s paying.”
“Who told you this?! She had no right to tell you!”
“She had a right to protect her client from being scammed.”
“I’ll explain everything to you tonight.”
“You’ll be busy tonight.”
“With what?”
“Reading,” Ksenia said. “I left three documents for you on the table. A handwriting expert’s report. A copy of the bank directive. And a certificate of cancellation.”
“What cancellation?!” he yelled.
Then she said it—calmly, clearly, in the same steady voice she used at work to report an unacceptable defect:
“I canceled both travel packages. Your mistress will have to pay her own way.”
“You had no rig—”
“I did. I was the payer. The penalty was taken out, and the rest will be refunded to me. Your name wasn’t anywhere on the payment, Artyom. According to you, you’re divorced and penniless.”
“Ksenia!”
“And one more thing. My mother took a statement on forgery and misuse of someone else’s account to the authorities today at noon. It’s been accepted. There’s a registration number. She also sent a copy of the expert’s report to your certification board—as an act of civic responsibility.”
“Where?!”
“To the place where you stamp approvals. They really appreciate people who can forge signatures.”
And then she hung up the phone.
***
He came home just before ten, tugging at the door handle that didn’t budge: the lock had already been changed, the locksmith had started at four.
“Ksenia! Open up! This is my apartment!”
The door opened. Standing in the doorway was Tamara Ignatievna.
“Good evening, Artyom Valeryevich.”
“Tamara Ignatievna, you… Please step aside so I can come in.”
“You can’t come in. The apartment came to Ksenia from her grandfather’s will, before the marriage. You were only registered here as a family member. The request to deregister you has been filed.”
“You have no right!”
“We do. And by the way, address me fully and politely. Politeness is the only thing that won’t cost you anything right now.”
***
Ksenia came out from down the hallway, carrying two sports bags.
“Here are your things. Documents, laptop, razor, all your miscellaneous stuff. Everything’s been checked, there’s an inventory ziptied to the zipper.”
“Ksyusha,” he stepped forward, “let’s just talk like normal people. No mothers, no lawyers. It’s been fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years,” she agreed. “And for the past six months, you’ve been picking out hotels with flowered balconies. And a forty-minute walk to the sea—‘she’ll understand,’ you said. By the way, did she?”
“What?”
“I’m asking: did Alyona Sergeevna understand it’s a forty-minute walk to the water? Or did you tell her it was romantic too?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m just presenting the facts, like in an official report.”
He tried another approach—lowering his voice to the tone people use when talking to the frightened:
“Ksyusha, what about our son? Timka needs his father.”
“Timka needed a hundred and eighty thousand for courses and a physics tutor. You decided to spend it on your mistress.”
“I’ll pay it back!”
— You’ll pay it back. Through a writ of execution. That way is easier for me: the interest is calculated automatically, no more empty promises.
— You’re destroying me!
— Artyom. It wasn’t me who destroyed you—it was your own desires.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen out of habit—and Ksenia saw his jaw clench.
— So, she asked, did they send it?
— Who?
— Alyona Sergeyevna. She got the notification about the cancellation this morning, didn’t she? I’m sure she’s curious about what’s going on.
— How do you…?
— Vera sent the notification to both travelers. That’s standard procedure. By the way, I asked her to specify the reason in full: ‘at the request of the payer, Sergeeva K. A., the client’s wife.’ Let her know whose dime she was planning to travel on.
He finally lost it—breathing heavily, he stepped toward the door.
— You’re ruining my life over some trip!
— No, Ksenia answered. — I just stopped paying for it.
***
After that, things started unfolding quickly, like a pre-set formula working itself out.
On Monday, Artyom was called into HR: the handwriting expert’s report, attached to the complaint, landed on the service chief’s desk. Upon review, he was suspended the same day—someone whose signature means authenticity on certificates can’t be involved in a forged signature case. Three weeks later, his certification was revoked.
Alyona Gushchina left for vacation—but alone, buying a last-minute ticket with her own money and posting in the work chat that she had ‘no intention to discuss personal matters.’ She returned tanned and silent, and a month later transferred to another branch.
The refund landed in Ksenia’s account on Wednesday: one hundred and sixty-something, give or take. She added her own money and put it all back in the Timofeev savings account.
***
— Mom, where’s Dad? — her son asked in the evening, closing his math workbook.
— At his mother’s place. On Polevaya Street.
— Is it for good?
— For now, yes.
— Because of money?
Ksenia looked at him closely. Lying to a fifteen-year-old who already knows how to count is pointless.
— Because of a signature, — she said. — He signed my name on someone else’s decision. That’s called forgery, Tim. And it’s not just ‘a fight’—it’s a criminal offense.
— So what am I supposed to say if someone asks?
— The truth. You’re not at fault for any of this.
***
He came by twice more. First time—with flowers and talk about ‘the devil made me do it.’ Second time—with a list of assets and the line, ‘I’m going to take half the apartment in court.’
— No, you won’t, — Ksenia said through the door. — The will, the inheritance date, the renovations paid by me. My mother put together a whole package of court practices. She’s spent more time in courtrooms than you have on vacation.
— You brought her here on purpose! She hates me!
— She doesn’t hate you, Artyom Valeryevich, — came a voice from behind the daughter. — She was just analyzing you. It’s professional, nothing personal.
— You’ve ruined my life!
— We gave it back to you, — Tamara Ignatyevna replied. — Now you have no wife, no wife’s money, and no one else’s signature. Go live in your own handwriting.
***
The divorce was finalized in September. The division of assets didn’t happen—there was nothing to split except for an old car, which the court left to him, along with the obligation to pay a hundred and eighty thousand.
On June 28th, on her fifteenth wedding anniversary, Ksenia wasn’t by the sea. She was at work, testing a joint on a tank, discovered a weld defect four millimeters deep, and stopped the acceptance.
The foreman cursed, the shop manager called the director, but she just stood there, staring at the seam that had looked flawless from the outside for fifteen years.
“It’s a nice seam,” said the foreman. “Even and clean.”
“It is nice,” Ksenia agreed. “But it’s hollow on the inside. You can’t fix that. You have to cut it out entirely.”
***
In the evening, she and Vera sat at a café by the river.
“Do you have any regrets?” Vera asked.
“About what?”
“Well… the last fifteen years.”
“I regret two days,” Ksenia smirked. “The days I thought he would actually organize something himself.”
“And I regret that we kept silent about me a year ago.”
“That’s why you called.”
“That’s why I called.”
Vera raised her glass of lemonade.
“To the payers.”
“To the payers,” Ksenia agreed. “And to those who finally learned how to read the payment details.”