In the morning, three receipts were lying on the kitchen table: Oleg had spread one out beside the sugar bowl, pinned the second down with a mug, and tucked the third under the saltcellar so it would not curl up. Zhanna came out to him with her fingers still damp from washing her hands and immediately saw that he had already calculated everything. Tea was cooling on the windowsill, the neighbor’s boy was getting ready for school behind the wall, and Oleg was looking not at her, but at the numbers. Almost six thousand had been spent on groceries in a week, and he pronounced that amount as though Zhanna had secretly carried their money out of the house.
“You bought too much again,” he said. “Fish, yogurt, apples. And why do you need three kinds of grains?”
“One kind is for you. You don’t eat buckwheat. The fish is for dinner, and the rest is for the week.”
“Your ‘for the week’ always costs more than it does for normal people.”
Zhanna placed on the table the container of casserole she had planned to take to her shift and sat down opposite him. Oleg had been nervous for the second month now: extra hours had been cut at the warehouse, and he was used to having some money left over at the end of the month. She understood why he was clinging to receipts. But understanding a person and letting him say whatever he wanted were two different things.
Oleg was silent for a moment, then took a bank card from his pocket and placed it beside the receipts.
“Starting Monday, buy your own food yourself,” he said. “I’ll buy my own groceries too. That’s fairer. And stop pretending you’re the only one holding everything together here.”
She looked at the blue card until the digits on the clock changed. She wanted to remind him about the utility bills, about his shirts that she took to the dry cleaner, about the nephew to whom Oleg sent a small amount of money every month. Instead, Zhanna stood up and put the casserole back into the refrigerator.
“All right,” she replied. “Separate, then separate.”
Oleg had expected something else. It was obvious from the way his palm remained on the table, and the card lay in front of him for one extra second. He was used to Zhanna beginning, after such conversations, to list expenses, then softening his irritation herself, placing a plate in front of him, and pretending nothing had happened. This time, she silently packed her bag, put on her coat, and left for the multifunctional service center before him. In the elevator, Zhanna realized she had forgotten her gloves at home, but she did not go back.
That evening, she bought two plastic baskets. In one, she placed cottage cheese, eggs, chicken fillet, vegetables, crispbread, and a jar of jam her aunt from the village had sent her. She left the second basket empty on the middle shelf of the refrigerator. When Oleg came home, he opened the door, saw the baskets, and grimaced.
“What is this, kindergarten?”
“You wanted it to be clear who buys what. Now it will be clear.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said everyone buys for themselves.”
The next day, he brought dumplings, sausage, bread, and four cans of tinned food. He arranged the groceries in his basket, slammed the refrigerator door, and went to watch the news. Zhanna wanted to say that he would get tired of that kind of food within a week, but she kept silent. At night, she woke up, went to the kitchen to drink some water, and saw the glowing strip of the refrigerator in the darkness. Oleg was standing in front of the open shelves, holding her jar of jam and reading the date on the label. Hearing her footsteps, he put the jar back.
“I was just checking how much was left,” he said.
Zhanna nodded and went back to the bedroom. In the morning, she ironed the same pillowcase for a long time, even though the crease had already disappeared. At that moment, it became clear to her: he was not planning to live separately for real. He only wanted her responsibility to be separate.
A week later, Oleg called his sister on speakerphone. Zhanna was cutting vegetables for her own dinner and heard every word from the room.
“Nina, come on Saturday, all of you,” he said. “It’s my birthday, after all. Bring Mom, Stepan and his wife, Aunt Raya. Don’t bring anything. Zhanna will set the table.”
“Is she not against it?” Nina asked.
“What is she going to say? She’s best at that.”
Zhanna was cutting the vegetables with a thin cheese wire that lay in the kitchen drawer. The wire trembled in her fingers; a slice of cucumber fell to the floor. She picked it up, washed it under the tap, and threw it away. After the call, Oleg came into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and asked where the large tablecloth was.
“What tablecloth?”
“For the birthday. I told you people are coming.”
“You told your sister I would set the table?”
“Who else? You’re at home. You know how.”
Zhanna wiped her palms on a towel and took from the drawer the notebook where she wrote down purchases. On a clean page, she wrote: meat, potatoes, cheese, eggs, vegetables, drinks, cake, bread, tea. Then she turned the notebook toward Oleg.
“This is the list. You buy the groceries, and I’ll cook with what you buy.”
“And your basket?”
“Mine is for workdays. You separated the food yourself.”
“Zhanna, don’t start. The relatives are coming.”
“Then you shouldn’t have made promises on my behalf.”
He looked at the list, then at her. Across his face flashed that same irritation that always appeared when numbers refused to obey his plan. He took the notebook, hesitated, and set it down beside the kettle too sharply.
“Fine. I’ll buy it. But don’t expect delicacies.”
On Thursday, Zhanna saw new work boots on the bedside table. Oleg had bought them with the money he had been setting aside since the previous week, and all evening he tried them on at home, checking whether they pinched his toes. At the warehouse, sturdy footwear was required; the old boots had already started letting in moisture, and in this he was right: he could not go to work without them. Zhanna thought that this was exactly why he clung to every purchase so tightly. But then a message from the family group lit up on his phone screen: “Zhanna, how many salads are we making?” Nina was already arranging who would arrive and when.
Oleg quickly typed: “Don’t cook anything. We have everything.”
Zhanna stood behind him with a cup in her hands and read the words over his shoulder. She should have written to her husband’s sister at once that there would be no festive table. She did not write. She decided it would look like petty revenge and put the conversation off until evening.
Instead, Zhanna took the large salad bowl out of the cupboard, placed it on the table, and wiped it for a long time with a dry cloth. In that bowl, she had once mixed salads for every family gathering, and Oleg would invariably tell the guests, “Zhanna has golden hands.” The memory made her feel embarrassed not for him, but for herself: even now, she was waiting for him to come to his senses at the last moment and tell the relatives the truth himself. Zhanna returned the salad bowl to the shelf. In its place, a round trace of dust remained.
Before bed, Zhanna set her alarm for seven, although she had nowhere to go on Saturday. She wanted to get up before everyone else and have time to decide what to do while the apartment still belonged only to the two of them. But during the night, she woke up more than once, and each time she heard Oleg’s steady breathing from the room. He slept calmly, as if all the food were already in the cupboards and the guests were not waiting for his promises.
That evening, Oleg brought home two bags. Then she understood that the postponed conversation had come into their apartment on its own.
On Friday, he placed two bags on the floor. Inside were potatoes, loaves of bread, sausages, a jar of mayonnaise, a bag of cucumbers, and a box of cheap chocolates. For a group like that, it would not have been enough even for one quiet evening. Zhanna stood by the table, going through the purchases, waiting for Oleg to say that there had not been enough money and they would have to invite fewer guests. But he took off his jacket, looked at her basket, and said:
“You have meat. Add that, and it’ll turn out fine.”
“That’s my supply until Wednesday.”
“My God, what difference does it make? In a family, everything is shared when necessary.”
“In a family, or when it suits you?”
He turned away sharply, poured himself some water, and drank it standing up. For a second, Zhanna saw in him not an offender, but a confused man who had become frightened of expenses and decided that a loud command would rid him of anxiety. She even wanted to open her basket, take out the meat, and end the conversation. She had already reached for the refrigerator door when she noticed the strip of paper on the container: “For shift. Tuesday.” She had made the label that morning so she would not mix up the food. Zhanna withdrew her hand.
“I’ll cook the potatoes and sausages,” she said. “The rest was not my decision.”
Saturday began calmly. Zhanna wiped the table, took out the plates, brewed tea, and placed on the windowsill a vase with rowan branches she had brought from a walk. Then she sat in the room for a long time, listening as Oleg walked from the kitchen to the hallway and back again. He still seemed to think that at the last moment she would give in. By noon, he looked in at her and snapped:
“You don’t want me to look stingy in front of everyone, do you?”
She did not answer. Instead, she opened the cupboard, took out her work thermos, and poured soup into it for Monday. The lid clicked loudly. Oleg stood in the doorway for a moment, then left.
The guests arrived almost all at once. Nina brought her husband and daughter, Raisa Semyonovna came with Aunt Raya, and Stepan arrived with his wife and two teenagers. The hallway grew cramped with coats and bags, but the bags turned out to be empty: one contained Oleg’s gift, the other the little girl’s change of shoes. As Nina took off her coat, she said:
“We listened and didn’t bring anything. Oleg assured us you had already prepared everything.”
Zhanna looked at her husband. He quickly looked away and began untying the bow on the gift box.
On the table were potatoes, sausages, cucumbers, bread, tea, and chocolates. Zhanna also put out a plate of greens she had bought for herself, but she did not take mayonnaise from her basket and did not make any salads. At first, Nina decided the main dish was still in the oven. Then she lifted the lid of the large pot, saw only a kettle of water inside, and stopped smiling.
“Oleg, where is everything else?”
“It’ll be ready now,” he said. “Zhanna just didn’t have time.”
“I had time to cook what you bought,” she replied.
Raisa Semyonovna slowly sat down on a chair. Aunt Raya took off her mittens and placed them beside the breadbox. Stepan, who always asked for seconds before everyone else, stood by the table and asked:
“What exactly did you invite us to?”
Oleg flushed.
“Don’t start. Zhanna has groceries. She’ll get everything out now.”
“I have food for the workweek,” Zhanna said. “You told me to buy it separately. That’s what I did.”
Nina turned to her brother.
“You said you organized everything yourself.”
“I did organize everything. She just decided to show her character.”
“I wasn’t the one who invited you here and promised a table,” Zhanna replied. “I simply didn’t give up my own food after he declared me an unnecessary expense.”
Oleg stepped toward the refrigerator and reached for the door. Zhanna beat him to it: she took out her basket, placed it on the windowsill, and covered it with a towel. It was a simple movement, but everyone in the kitchen saw him stop with his hand outstretched. Nina looked at him the way she had looked at him in childhood when he dumped his school duties on her.
“Did you really decide to feed us with what Zhanna bought for herself?”
“That’s not how it was.”
“Then how was it?” Raisa Semyonovna asked. “We came empty-handed because you told us not to bring anything.”
Oleg tried to smile.
“Well, we’ll order something ready-made now. Nina, transfer me some money to my card. I’ll pay you back later.”
His sister took out her phone, looked at him, and did not press anything.
“You still haven’t paid me back for last time. Or for Mom’s anniversary either.”
“Nina, not in front of everyone.”
“But it was all right to tell Zhanna in front of everyone that she lives at your expense?”
Aunt Raya stood up, put on her mittens, and said it was time for her to go: someone was waiting for her at home. Stepan and his wife also began gathering the children. No one shouted or caused a scene. That made it even harder for Oleg: the relatives were leaving without a scandal, but no longer as if they were leaving a celebration. The gift remained lying unopened on the chest of drawers, with a paper greeting card sticking out beside it.
“Wait,” Oleg said. “I’ll go to the store right now.”
“No need,” Nina replied. “We’re not hungry. We just came to see my brother and ended up inside your calculation.”
She took her daughter by the hand. Before leaving, the girl quietly asked her mother why Uncle Oleg had not bought any food. Nina said nothing, only fastened her daughter’s jacket more tightly.
When the door closed, Oleg was left standing alone in the hallway. Zhanna cleared the untouched plates from the table, put the bread into a bag, and carried the potatoes out to the balcony so they would not spoil. He came into the kitchen later, placed his palms on the back of a chair, and said:
“Are you satisfied?”
“No.”
“You wanted them to leave?”
“I wanted you not to promise on my behalf what you yourself had refused to do.”
He sat down, looked at the gift box behind the glass of the sideboard, and did not move for a long time. Then he said Nina was right, but immediately added that Zhanna could have saved the evening too. She placed the empty cucumber bowl in front of him.
“I almost did. I opened the refrigerator and wanted to give everything away. But then I realized that tomorrow you would say again, ‘See, you managed after all.’ And in a month we would be back to the same receipts.”
Oleg raised his eyes. This time, he did not argue.
The next day, he called Nina himself. Zhanna sat in the room and heard his voice through the half-open door.
“I ruined everything. Zhanna didn’t let anyone down. I decided to save money, and then I wanted her to cover for me in front of you… No, I’m not making excuses. I said too much to her and made it worse.”
After the call, Oleg came into the kitchen with the notebook. On the first page, he wrote two columns: “home” and “personal.” Then he placed a stack of bills beside it.
“This is for shared groceries. From now on, we’ll calculate together.”
“And if you want to separate things again?”
“Then first I’ll go to the store myself, cook myself, and invite guests myself. Without your promises.”
Zhanna did not take the money immediately. She put a pot of water on the stove, took out the potatoes, and handed him a vegetable peeler. Oleg took it, sat down at the table, and began peeling potatoes. The peels fell in long strips onto an old newspaper. After a few minutes, he raised his head and asked where they kept the salt.
Zhanna silently pointed to the shelf. He did not find it on the first try, then poured a little into a small bowl and placed it beside the pot. In the refrigerator, on the middle shelf, stood two baskets. Oleg took one out, wiped it with a dry towel, and placed it beside the second. Then he moved the bread, potatoes, and a packet of grains into it, no longer dividing them by names.
