Marina and Pavel were celebrating their thirtieth wedding anniversary. After making a Napoleon cake, Marina hopefully reminded her husband of their long-standing dream. “Pasha, do you remember how you once promised to take me to Paris for our thirtieth?” she asked. Without looking up from his phone, Pavel handed her a velvet box with a ring. “Three thousand rubles,” he said, eyes still on his feet. “Got it at Sunlight, they had a good discount.” “Thank you,” she whispered, trying to hide her disappointment. “It’s very beautiful.” Something stabbed painfully in her chest. It wasn’t about the diamonds—it was that dry little report.
Marina had long noticed that ever since her husband got into a fitness club a year ago, along with diets and new suits, he’d grown distant. That festive evening, Pavel suddenly had “urgent business,” and he left, abandoning his wife alone with the untouched cake. Later, her friend Tanya wrote: “Turn on ‘Stolitsa’ quickly!” On the screen there was a segment from the upscale restaurant La Marée. At a table sat Pavel, and across from him—a striking blonde of about thirty-eight. Tanya immediately sent another message: “That’s Viktoria from the fitness club. She’s been telling everyone her lover gave her a trip to Paris for the May holidays.” “The May holidays. In a week,” Marina thought. She looked at the ring. “Three thousand. With a discount.” And for her—Paris.
When Pavel came home in the dead of night, Marina was waiting for him in the kitchen. “How was the meeting?” she asked. “Fine. Just tired.” “At La Marée?” He froze. “Oh, you mean the news piece? Yes, there. It was a business meeting.” “With a ‘partner,’” Marina said through her teeth. “When are you two flying to Paris? For the May holidays?” “What nonsense is this?” “Don’t pretend, Pasha,” her voice trembled. “I know everything. About Viktoria.” He sank heavily onto a chair. “So what now? A scandal? Hysteria? At our age that’s pointless.” “Three thousand rubles, Pasha!” her voice shook with indignation. “You spent that on a ring for your wife, and you give your mistress a romantic trip to Paris?!” “What did you expect?” For the first time in a long while, he raised his voice. “Thirty years in the same bed! Look at yourself—an old robe, curlers always in your hair… You weren’t a wife, you were a housemaid! And Vika… she sees a man in me. She’s interesting to talk to!” Marina stared at him in silence. Thirty years of her life had been reduced to the word “housemaid.” “You know what?” her voice became surprisingly calm. “Fly to your Paris. But before that, sign the divorce papers.”
A month later they divorced. Soon her friend Tanya brought news: “Can you imagine, that Viktoria came back from Paris and ran straight to the fitness club. In tears! Turns out your ex spent the whole trip on his phone dealing with work. Didn’t even take her to the Louvre—‘too much to do.’” Marina laughed. “And you—how are you?” “You know,” Marina replied, “the first week I cried. And then… I signed up for Spanish classes. I go to the pool. I think I’ve started living again.” “And Pavel?” “What about Pavel?” She shrugged indifferently. “They say Viktoria dumped him. He called recently, asked to come back. I refused.” “Do you feel sorry for him?” “I used to. Now…” She smiled. “You know, I bought a ticket. To Paris.” “Alone?!” “Alone. I’m only fifty-seven—it’s the perfect time to start living for myself.” Six months later, in her Spanish course, she met the instructor, Sergey. “Listen, Marina,” he said one day, “why don’t we go to Paris together next time?” She laughed. “Deal. Just not in May—the city’s too overrun with tourists then.” She passed that modest three-thousand-ruble ring on to her granddaughter—to use for playing with dolls.