“Planning to leave me for another woman? And you’re going like that—with two different-colored socks and the tag still sticking out of your sweater?” Raisa asked, and her husband looked down at himself.
Andrei stood in the hallway with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder—the same one with the broken zipper that Rita had sewn up three times and glued twice. The bag was packed unevenly, bulging on one side and sagging on the other. It was obvious he had packed in a hurry, stuffing his clothes inside in crumpled bundles.
“Rita, I’m leaving,” he said, looking somewhere past her toward the coat rack. “I’m going to Natasha. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, but… well, now I’m telling you.”
Rita stood in the kitchen doorway with a towel in her hands. Slowly and carefully, she dried her palms, finger by finger. Then she hung the towel on its hook. Only after that did she turn fully toward him.
“Andrei, come here,” she said calmly.
“Why? I’ve already made up my mind. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
“I wasn’t going to. Come over to the mirror.”
He walked over, more out of confusion than obedience. Rita stood beside him and pointed at his reflection. His sweater was gray and wrinkled, with a white factory tag sticking out from under the collar like a flag of surrender. Below it were sweatpants with a stain on one knee.
“This is what you’re planning to wear into your new life?” she asked without anger, almost with curiosity. “One of your socks is dark blue, the other is black with a green stripe. Did you even look down when you got dressed?”
Andrei jerked his foot and looked. His expression was somewhere between irritation and embarrassment.
“What difference does it make what I’m wearing? That’s not what this conversation is about.”
“It makes a difference,” Rita said, taking the towel off the hook and folding it into quarters, “because that woman is going to look at you and decide that in seven years I couldn’t even manage to dress you properly. That you’ve been living like some neglected stray. That I was completely useless as a wife.”
“Come on, Rita…”
“Take off the sweater.”
“What?”
“The sweater. Take it off. And that… that thing you’ve got underneath it too.” She pointed at his worn-out undershirt with its stretched neckline. “I’ll give you a proper shirt.”
Andrei stood there opening and closing his mouth, unable to find an argument. The bag slowly slipped from his shoulder to the floor. He picked it up, set it upright, and looked at Rita again.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely. Change your shoes. Your black shoes are in the entryway—I wiped them down yesterday. And put on matching socks. Top drawer of the dresser. There are three pairs in there that I washed on Saturday.”
Rita walked into the bedroom. He could hear her opening the wardrobe and shifting hangers around. Andrei remained standing in the hallway alone, with the tag sticking out of his sweater and two different colors on his feet, staring into the mirror at the man who, only a minute ago, had believed himself fully prepared to take a decisive step.
Rita came back carrying a neatly ironed light-blue shirt and a pair of dark trousers.
“Here. Put these on. Those pants”—she nodded toward his sweatpants—“are simply embarrassing. There’s a ketchup stain on them from Wednesday. Are you going to another woman or heading to the country house to dig potatoes?”
“Rita, I don’t understand what you’re doing,” he said, taking a step back. “I told you I’m leaving. You were supposed to…”
“What? Cry? Smash plates? Grab onto your trouser leg and refuse to let go?”
“Well, I don’t know… react differently somehow.”
“I am reacting. I’m making sure you leave this house looking like a human being. Put on the shirt.”
He took the shirt and crumpled it awkwardly in his hands, as though he had no idea where to begin. Rita took it back, undid all the buttons, and handed it to him again.
“Button it from the bottom up. You always start from the top and end up one buttonhole off. Seven years, Andrei. Seven years, and you still haven’t learned.”
He buttoned it. Wrong.
Rita stepped closer and silently redid the bottom two buttons. She stood close enough that he could feel her fingers moving over the fabric, quickly and precisely. Not a single unnecessary movement.
“Change into the trousers in the bedroom. And choose the right belt. Don’t take the brown one—it doesn’t go with black shoes. The black one is hanging in the wardrobe on the right.”
“Rita, are you throwing me out of the house or something?”
“I’m getting you ready to leave. There’s a difference.”
Andrei went to change. Through the wall, Rita could hear him fumbling around, dropping the belt, quietly swearing under his breath. She stood by the mirror and polished his shoes with a suede cloth—methodically and without rushing, with the same care she normally gave things before important occasions.
He came out. The trousers fit properly, and the shirt sat straight. But then there was the stubble. Two days’ worth, uneven and patchy. Andrei had never really learned to shave properly either; he was always leaving strips behind.
“To the bathroom,” Rita said.
“Where?”
“To shave. Your face looks like you’ve spent three nights sleeping at a railway station. The razor is in the cup, the shaving foam is on the shelf. I’m asking you, Andrei—shave properly. Under the cheekbones and beneath your chin. You always miss those spots.”
He stood there, and something in his eyes began to change. It wasn’t regret—not yet. But his rhythm had been broken. He had been prepared for a confrontation, and instead he was receiving wardrobe instructions.
“Go,” Rita repeated. “I’ll put your shoes in the hallway.”
Andrei took a long time shaving. He cut himself twice—Rita heard the familiar hiss and a short, “Ah, damn it.”
She brought him a cotton pad and some antiseptic, silently placed them on the edge of the sink, and walked out.
When he finally appeared—clean-shaven, wearing the shirt and proper trousers—Rita looked him over from head to toe. She nodded. Then she stepped closer and sniffed.
“You’re planning to show up at another woman’s place smelling like old deodorant?”
“Rita, I’m about to…”
“On the bathroom shelf there’s a bottle of cologne. The blue one. Two sprays on your wrists and one on your neck. Not four, not five—three. You always use too much.”
Without a word, he turned around and went back into the bathroom.
Rita looked at his back—straight, covered by the light-blue shirt she had ironed the night before, when she still had no idea what it would be needed for.
The intercom buzzed.
Rita picked up the receiver.
“Rita, it’s Zhanna. Can I come up?”
“Come on up.”
Zhanna—Andrei’s sister—entered briskly, as always. She was one of those women who managed to fill an entire room with her presence before she had even taken off her shoes.
“Where is he?” she asked instead of saying hello.
“In the bathroom. Shaving.”
“Shaving?” Zhanna frowned. “Kostya called me. He said Andrei is leaving you for some woman. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“And you’re… just standing here calmly waiting for him to finish shaving?… Continued a little lower down in the first comment.”
Andrei stood in the hallway with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder—the same one with the broken zipper that Rita had sewn up three times and glued twice. The bag was packed unevenly, bulging on one side and sagging on the other. It was obvious he had packed in a hurry, stuffing his clothes inside in crumpled bundles.
“Rita, I’m leaving,” he said, looking somewhere past her toward the coat rack. “I’m going to Natasha. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, but… well, now I’m telling you.”
Rita stood in the kitchen doorway with a towel in her hands. Slowly and carefully, she dried her palms, one finger at a time. She hung the towel on its hook. Only then did she turn fully toward him.
“Andrei, come over here,” she said calmly.
“Why? I’ve already made up my mind. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”
“I’m not going to. Come to the mirror.”
He walked over, more out of confusion than obedience. Rita stood beside him and pointed at his reflection. His sweater was gray and wrinkled, with a white factory tag sticking out from under the collar like a flag of surrender. Below that were sweatpants with a stain on one knee.
“Is this really how you’re planning to start your new life?” she asked without anger, almost curiously. “You’ve got one dark blue sock on and the other one is black with a green stripe. Did you even look down when you got dressed?”
Andrei jerked one foot and looked. His expression was somewhere between irritation and embarrassment.
“What difference does it make what I’m wearing? That’s not what this conversation is about.”
“The difference,” Rita said, taking the towel off the hook and folding it neatly into quarters, “is that this woman is going to look at you and decide that after seven years I couldn’t even manage to dress you properly. She’ll think you lived like some neglected stray. That I was completely useless as a wife.”
“Oh, come on, Rita…”
“Take off the sweater.”
“What?”
“The sweater. Take it off. And that… that thing you’re wearing underneath it too.” She pointed to his worn-out undershirt with its stretched neckline. “I’ll get you a decent shirt.”
Andrei stood there opening and closing his mouth, unable to come up with an argument. The bag slowly slipped from his shoulder onto the floor. He picked it up, set it upright, and looked at Rita again.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely. Change your shoes. Your black ones are in the entryway—I wiped them down yesterday. And put on matching socks. There are three clean pairs in the top drawer of the dresser. I washed them on Saturday.”
Rita went into the bedroom. He could hear her opening the wardrobe and moving hangers around. Andrei remained alone in the hallway, a tag sticking out of his sweater and mismatched colors on his feet, staring into the mirror at the man he had believed, only a minute earlier, was ready to take a decisive step.
Rita returned carrying a neatly ironed light blue shirt and a pair of dark trousers.
“Here. Put these on. Those pants,” she said, nodding toward his sweatpants, “are embarrassing. There’s a ketchup stain on them from Wednesday. Are you going to see a woman or going out to the country to dig potatoes?”
“Rita, I don’t understand what you’re doing.” He took a step backward. “I told you I’m leaving. You were supposed to…”
“What? Cry? Smash plates? Grab onto your trouser leg?”
“I don’t know… react differently somehow.”
“I am reacting. I’m making sure you leave looking like a civilized human being. Put the shirt on.”
He took the shirt and crumpled it awkwardly in his hands as though he had no idea what to do with it. Rita took it back, unbuttoned it completely, and handed it to him again.
“Button it from the bottom up. You always start at the top and end up one buttonhole off. Seven years, Andrei. Seven years, and you still haven’t learned.”
He buttoned it.
Wrong.
Rita stepped closer and silently redid the bottom two buttons. She was standing so near that he could feel her fingers moving over the fabric, quick and precise. Not a single unnecessary movement.
“Change into the trousers in the bedroom. And choose the right belt. Don’t take the brown one—it doesn’t go with black shoes. The black one is hanging in the wardrobe on the right.”
“Rita… are you throwing me out of the house or something?”
“I’m getting you ready. There’s a difference.”
Andrei went to change. Through the wall, Rita could hear him fumbling around, dropping the belt and quietly swearing under his breath. She stood by the mirror polishing his shoes with a suede cloth—methodically and unhurriedly, with the same care she usually gave things before important occasions.
He came out. The trousers fit properly. The shirt sat straight.
But there was the stubble.
Two days’ worth, uneven and patchy. Andrei had never really learned how to shave properly either; he always left strips untouched.
“Bathroom,” Rita said.
“What?”
“Go shave. You look like someone who’s been sleeping in a train station for three days. Your razor is in the cup, the shaving foam is on the shelf. Please, Andrei, shave properly. Under your cheekbones and under your chin. You always miss those places.”
He stood there, and something in his eyes began to change. It wasn’t remorse—not yet. But his rhythm had been disrupted. He had come prepared for a confrontation and had instead received wardrobe instructions.
“Go,” Rita repeated. “I’ll put your shoes by the door.”
Andrei took a long time shaving. He cut himself twice—Rita heard the familiar hiss followed by a brief, “Ah, damn it.”
She brought him a cotton pad and some antiseptic, silently set them on the edge of the sink, and walked out.
When he finally appeared—clean-shaven, wearing the shirt and proper trousers—Rita looked him over from head to toe. She nodded, then stepped closer and sniffed.
“You’re planning to show up at another woman’s place smelling like stale deodorant?”
“Rita, I swear…”
“There’s cologne on the bathroom shelf. Blue bottle. Two sprays on your wrists and one on your neck. Not four, not five—three. You always use too much.”
Without a word, he turned around and went back into the bathroom.
Rita watched his back, straight beneath the light blue shirt she had ironed the previous evening without yet knowing what occasion she was ironing it for.
The intercom rang. Rita picked up the receiver.
“Rita, it’s Zhanna. Can I come up?”
“Come up.”
Zhanna, Andrei’s sister, swept inside as briskly as always. She was the kind of woman who managed to occupy an entire room before she had even taken off her shoes.
“Where is he?” she asked instead of saying hello.
“In the bathroom. Shaving.”
“Shaving?” Zhanna frowned. “Kostya called me. He said Andrei is leaving you for some woman. Is that true?”
“It is.”
“And you’re… just standing here calmly waiting for him to finish shaving?”
“I’m not waiting. I’m getting him ready.”
Zhanna froze.
Rita saw the familiar hostility flash in her eyes—the kind that had accumulated over the years like dust in corners. Zhanna had never thought Rita was good enough for her brother.
“What do you mean, getting him ready?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. He came to the mirror wearing wrinkled sweatpants with ketchup on the knee, mismatched socks, and a tag sticking out of his sweater. What was I supposed to do, let him leave like that? So this Natasha could decide Andrei’s wife was a slob?”
Zhanna opened her mouth.
“Wait. You… ironed his shirt?”
“It was already ironed. I cleaned his shoes. Made him change everything from his underwear to his belt.”
“Why?”
Rita turned toward her and looked at her evenly, without defiance.
“Because he is my husband. For the moment. And if he’s leaving me, he’s leaving properly dressed, clean, in an ironed shirt and polished shoes. Because I’m not the kind of woman a man walks away from looking like a homeless drifter.”
Zhanna leaned against the wall.
Something shifted in her face, like the hand of a clock that had stayed in one position for years and suddenly moved.
“You… you’re insane,” she said quietly.
But there was no condemnation in her voice.
There was something else.
Footsteps came from the bathroom. Andrei emerged at last—smelling decent, clean-shaven, with a tiny piece of cotton still stuck to his chin that he had forgotten to remove.
Rita walked over, plucked it off, and tossed it into the trash.
“There. Now you can go.”
Andrei stood by the door.
Shoes polished.
Shirt without a single wrinkle.
Correct belt.
Three sprays of cologne.
Face smooth except for two tiny cuts.
He was ready.
And he wasn’t moving.
“Well?” Rita said. “Someone’s waiting for you.”
“Wait.” He put the bag down. “I want to understand something. Are you… happy about this?”
“I’m trying to make sure you don’t embarrass either yourself or me.”
“No.” He narrowed his eyes. “You accepted all this too easily. Too quickly. Rita, is there someone else?”
“Andrei, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m serious. A normal wife would… I don’t know…”
“Cry hysterically? Beg you? Crawl after you on her knees?”
“Well, she’d at least be upset!”
“I am upset. But apparently my way of being upset is polishing your shoes rather than lying across the doorway to stop you from leaving. Everyone has their own style, Andrei.”
He sat down on the little bench in the entryway—the same one that constantly squeaked and that Rita had been asking him to repair for a year and a half.
“You know what?” he said, beginning to untie one shoe. “I’m going to sit here for a while. Then I’ll leave. I need to think about something.”
“What is there to think about? You came home, made your announcement, packed your bag. Natasha is waiting. Go.”
“Rita, don’t rush me.”
“Andrei.” Rita picked up his bag and placed it on his lap. “I waited for you for seven years. I waited for you to fix the faucet. I waited for you to put up the shelf. I waited for you to stop losing the apartment keys—we replaced four sets. Four, Andrei. I am a patient woman. But today you said it yourself: it’s over. And I heard you. Get up.”
“I don’t want to get up.”
“And I don’t want you sitting there.”
The doorbell rang.
Rita opened the door. Kostya, Andrei’s friend, stood on the other side. He was short and fidgety.
“Andrei, I’ve got my car. I can give you a ride,” he began cheerfully, then immediately stumbled when he saw Zhanna. “Oh. Hi, Zhanna.”
“Hi, Kostya. Did you encourage him to do this?”
“Me? No! I’m just… giving him moral support. As a friend.”
“As a friend,” Zhanna repeated in a tone that made Kostya take half a step backward.
Rita watched the scene from the hallway: Andrei sitting on the bench, Kostya standing in the doorway, Zhanna between them.
And suddenly she felt the softness that had sustained her through the past hour begin to crack.
Not like glass.
Like river ice in spring.
Quietly, with a long groan.
“Kostya,” she said, “take him. Right now.”
“Hey, I’ll decide for myself when I leave.” Andrei stood up.
“You already decided. Half an hour ago. I got you shaved, changed your clothes, polished your shoes. You’re ready. I’m not going to stand here watching you sit in my hallway asking for time to think when you had seven years to do your thinking.”
“Your hallway?”
“The apartment is in my name. You know it. I know it. The documents are in the top drawer of the dresser if you want to check.”
Andrei froze.
“Rita, wait. Let’s not get carried away.”
“Getting carried away is when someone makes a decision in the heat of the moment. You told me you’d thought everything through. You said you’d wanted to tell me for a long time. You said you were going to Natasha. I accepted all of it. I dressed you. I did my part. Now do yours.”
Zhanna silently watched Rita.
For the first time, Rita saw neither irritation nor the usual sharpness in her eyes. It was as though Zhanna had finally noticed the person who had been standing in front of her all these years while she had been looking straight through her.
“Rita,” Zhanna said quietly, “you’re stronger than I thought. I’m sorry I never noticed.”
“It’s all right, Zhanna. You weren’t obligated to notice.”
Andrei still wouldn’t leave.
He sat back down on the bench, then stood up, walked into the room, picked up a glass of water, set it back on the table, and returned to the hallway.
“Listen,” he began, and his voice had changed. It was soft and pleading now—the same voice Rita had heard in hundreds of variations of, “Come on, Rita, I forgot.”
“Maybe I got carried away. Maybe I should stay and we should talk about this…”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“What do you mean, nothing? We have an apartment, we have our things, we have…”
“We have nothing, Andrei. The apartment is mine. Your belongings, as far as I can see, are in that bag. If you forgot something, I’ll pack it up and send it through Zhanna.”
“Through me,” Zhanna confirmed.
And the words “through me” sounded less like an offer and more like a period at the end of a sentence.
Andrei stared at his sister in open disbelief.
“Zhanna, what are you doing? You’re taking her side?”
“I’m taking the side of the person who still has some dignity. Today, that isn’t you.”
Kostya shifted from one foot to the other in the doorway.
“Andrei, maybe we really should go? Natasha is probably waiting.”
“Shut up,” Andrei snapped. “I need to think.”
“Think in the car,” Rita said. “Or at Natasha’s. Or on the bench outside the building. Just not here.”
She walked to the front door and opened it wide.
The stairwell was dimly lit. Somewhere on an upper floor, a neighbor’s child could be heard practicing scales on the piano—clumsily, but diligently.
“Rita…” Andrei stepped toward her. “Listen. Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe this Natasha isn’t what I thought at all. I lost my head. Give me another day and I’ll figure things out.”
“You can figure them out on the other side of the door.”
“You can’t do this!”
“Yes, I can. You gave me permission yourself. Half an hour ago, when you stood there with your bag and said, ‘I’m leaving.’ I believed you. I got you ready. And now you want to take it back? No, Andrei. I don’t have a rewind button.”
He stood there in his polished shoes, perfectly ironed shirt, clean-shaven and smelling of good cologne—and he looked lost.
Completely, hopelessly lost.
Like a man who was accustomed to losing keys, phones, and documents, only to discover that this time he had finally lost something that had no duplicate and could not be replaced.
“Rita,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse, “I don’t want to leave.”
“And I don’t want you to stay. Funny how that works. Sometimes two things people don’t want collide, and the stronger one wins.”
“Which one is stronger?”
“Mine. Because I know what I want. You don’t. You never have. You lost phones—I bought new ones. You lost documents—I replaced them. You lost keys—I changed the locks. You lost your wife—and that is one thing I’m not going to replace for you.”
Zhanna turned toward the wall.
Kostya stared at the floor.
“Andrei,” Rita said his name the way people say something for the final time, “go. I’m not angry. I’m not taking revenge. I’m simply closing a door that you opened yourself. Please step through it before it closes.”
He picked up his bag.
For another second he stood there, perhaps waiting for her to change her mind. Or perhaps hoping the hallway mirror would show him a different reality, one in which he had never said those words.
The mirror showed a well-groomed man in a clean shirt.
A man who had been carefully prepared for departure by the woman he was leaving.
That was more terrifying than any screaming match could have been.
“Come on, Andrei.” Kostya took him by the sleeve. “My car’s downstairs.”
Andrei stepped across the threshold.
Then he turned around.
“Rita…”
“Don’t forget to polish those shoes again in two days. Use cream, not a sponge. A sponge only shines the surface; cream actually conditions the leather. And wash that shirt at forty degrees, not sixty. It’ll shrink.”
He stared at her.
And it seemed that only now was he beginning to understand exactly what he was losing.
Not the apartment.
Not the comfortable routine.
But the person who had spent seven years putting him back together piece by piece, finding everything he lost, ironing his shirts and polishing his shoes—and who had done all of it not out of weakness.
Out of strength.
The door closed.
Quietly, without a slam.
Rita turned the lock once, then twice.
She leaned back against the door and looked at Zhanna.
“Want some tea?”
Zhanna nodded.
“Rita… I didn’t say a single kind word to you in seven years. I thought you were a doormat. I thought you were nothing more than his servant. But you…”
“I wasn’t his servant, Zhanna. I was his wife. A good wife.”
“I know.” Zhanna paused. “I know now.”
Rita put the kettle on.
She took out two mugs—not one, as she usually did when Andrei went out with his friends and she stayed home drinking tea alone.
Two.
“Zhanna, he’s allergic to scented laundry detergent. Tell Natasha. She needs to buy the hypoallergenic kind. And tell her to check his pockets before doing the laundry—he’s always leaving coins and tissues in them. Then the entire load ends up covered in little white bits.”
Zhanna looked at her.
And in that look was something Rita had waited seven years to see—not necessarily from Andrei, not from his friends, not from anyone in particular.
Respect.
“I’m not telling him any of that,” Zhanna said. “Let him figure it out himself. For once in his life—by himself.”
Rita smiled.
Not broadly.
Just with one corner of her mouth.
The kettle clicked off.
Behind the wall, the neighbor’s child finally played the scale all the way through without making a single mistake.
