That day—the very one, the last day of their life together—splintered into Karina’s memory like shards of glass. The air in the entryway was thick and stale, smelling of old resentments and the sour tang of dashed hopes.
“Who’s going to want you, huh?” Artyom’s words hung in the air—heavy, poisonous, each one like a sharpened knife aimed straight at her most vulnerable spot. He stood to his full, considerable height and looked down at her, nothing in his eyes but the same old, tired contempt. “Unkempt. Always tired. Always dissatisfied. Shuffling around in that robe stretched out like your life. I’ll find myself a normal woman in no time—fresh, well-groomed, the kind who won’t whine from morning till night. The only thing I regret… I’m losing my free hairdresser. But you—you’re losing a decent man. A provider. A father to your own children!”
Karina didn’t cry. Her tears had dried up months ago, leaving only a dry, scorched desert inside. Without a word, she nudged his hastily packed suitcase with her foot, sending it thudding toward the door. The sound was as hollow and pointless as all their recent conversations.
“You ‘help’ with the kids, sure,” she said, her voice quiet but with that icy clarity that raises goosebumps. “Driving them to practice once a month isn’t help, Artyom. It’s a tick on a checklist. Checking their homework once in half a year isn’t fatherhood. It’s a formality. Go on, leave. Enough. Go find your ‘blossoming’ one. Your new hairdresser. And may happiness be with you. Sincerely.”
He slammed the door. The crash echoed through the silence of the apartment like a funeral bell for something finally dead. Only then did Karina allow herself to sink to the floor in that same dark hallway, press her palms to the cold linoleum, and choke on a soundless, racking scream that tightened her heart and sent icy shivers racing down her back. Not from the pain of parting—from the terrifying, ringing loneliness that took its place.
For the second day Artyom had been staying at a friend’s place while the friend was away on an extended business trip. The stranger’s apartment, smelling of someone else’s smoke and of loneliness, pressed down on him. But the thought of renting made him nauseous: now he’d have to shell out a hefty sum and also send money to… Karina… regularly.
“For the kids, of course,” he sneered to himself as he steered a cart down the empty morning aisles of the supermarket. “She’ll go buy herself a fur coat with my alimony. No thanks. Better to send groceries. At least then I’ll know my hard-earned cash isn’t going to her whims… ‘Hairdresser’… And look at her! Shambles around like a mangy cat. Can’t be bothered to pull herself together. And she used to be such a beauty… I was jealous, honestly, jealous that I had a wife like that!”
He was so deep in his bitter, spiteful thoughts that he didn’t notice the woman turning out from behind the rows of dry goods. His cart crashed into the stranger, making her gasp and drop a sleek metal case that flashed cold silver under the fluorescent lights.
“Ow! That hurt!” Her voice wasn’t shrill; even startled, it was melodic. She rubbed her ankle, where a purplish mark was already blooming. “Ouch, that’ll be a bruise! Why so careless? Look, all my tools are scattered…”
Muttering embarrassed apologies, Artyom dropped to his knees and gathered the odd items from the dirty floor: professional thinning shears, a chrome clipper, little bottles of cosmetics.
“You… you’re a hairdresser?” he asked, handing her the case.
“And a makeup artist,” she corrected, and merry sparks danced in the corners of her emerald eyes. She wasn’t just beautiful. She shone. Perfectly styled chestnut hair, flawless makeup setting off her lush lips and high cheekbones, an elegant coat gently hugging her slim figure. The air itself seemed to vibrate differently around her. “A beauty specialist—in every sense.”
“Let me at least make it up to you somehow,” Artyom said, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager. “I’ve finished my shopping. Let me carry your bags, walk you home. It’s the least I can do…”
She studied him for a moment, as if scanning him, then nodded, and a smile bloomed on her lips that took his breath away.
“All right,” she said. “My name is Lika.”
The half hour he walked beside her felt like stepping out of a dark tunnel into bright, sun-drenched day. He forgot Karina, the children, the anger, the money, the rented apartment. He told her funny stories, and she laughed a clear, chiming laugh like crystal bells. Most incredible of all—she herself suggested they meet again.
“You know, Artyom, your hair is a mess,” she remarked with light, professional frankness as they parted at her building. “You need a good stylist. Urgently.”
“It’s… not convenient right now. I moved to another district,” he mumbled.
“Is that so? Well, that’s fixable. I take clients both at the salon and at home. And this, by the way, is my building. Thanks for walking me, my clumsy gentleman!”
He left her walking on air. His heart was pounding fast, like he was eighteen again.
“Just look how she cut my hair!” Artyom couldn’t contain his delight, turning in front of the office mirror and catching colleagues’ admiring looks. “I feel like I was born again! And she herself… you should see her! Skirt, heels, and she smells like expensive perfume and… happiness. Now that is a real woman!”
He was smitten. Blinded. In Lika he saw everything he’d been missing: lightness, polish, carefreeness. He truly believed that fate, as a reward for years of a dull marriage, had given him this luxurious woman.
Their romance whirled up like a hurricane. Lika was perfect—passionate, fun, always immaculate. She fed him exquisite dishes that she assured him she’d made herself, and he, breathless with admiration, believed every word.
A week later he stopped by Karina’s to drop off the promised groceries. He set the bags down in the same dim hallway and was about to beat a retreat, but her voice stopped him.
“You know, Artyom, you can stop bringing pasta,” she said evenly, without emotion. “If you don’t want to give me money, pay for the kids’ activities. They need summer shoes, T-shirts. You could take them on the weekend, go shopping with them… Though what am I saying? We’ll sort it out in court.”
“Fine,” he agreed faster than she expected. Money was even easier—less time wasted. “I’ll transfer it. Can’t do the weekend, I’ve got things to do. Important things. I’ll swing by sometime during the week.”
“I expected nothing else,” Karina said with a bitter little laugh. “Found someone, did you? That’s why your weekends are booked.”
“I did,” Artyom shot back, caught out and defiant. “Found a good woman. And a new hairdresser. Two in one. Just like you predicted.”
“Did you?” Her laugh was joyless and sharp. “Then why are you all gray now, if you’ve got such a good woman? Look—your whole head looks dusted with ash. Remember how you used to say women age faster? You were wrong, darling. Your face looks like a baked apple. A month ago none of that was there!”
Artyom glanced automatically at his reflection in the hallway mirror. An icy shiver ran down his back. How had he not noticed? Yes, his hair… it really was thick with gray. And deep, harsh lines had set in around his eyes and mouth. It was as if he’d aged ten years in a month. Was he ill? But he felt… tired. Very tired. And his back hurt.
“You just don’t know how to change a light bulb—sitting in the gloom everything looks that way to you,” he muttered, trying to keep up his bravado, and all but fled the apartment.
He needed Lika. Only her light, her energy could dispel this strange, unpleasant chill inside.
“Lika, let’s move in together,” Artyom pleaded, eyes imploring like a loyal dog waiting for a pat. She was dressed all in white, getting ready for work, and to him she looked like an angel come down from heaven.
She laughed—clear, but somehow lifeless.
“And where would we move, my boy? You’re living on someone else’s couch. Are you asking me to move with you into a rented studio? Start from scratch?”
“I thought… maybe to your place,” he mumbled, unsure.
“To mine? Oh no, dear. My nest is my fortress. I can invite you to stay as a guest. Nothing more. And really—why bring in domesticity? That suffocating mix of borscht, laundry, scattered socks, and kids screaming? I don’t want that. I’m younger than you; I still want to fly, not crawl around pots and pans. Oh—let me tidy up your sideburns,” she switched gears abruptly, taking out her clippers.
He obediently bowed his head, but a worm of doubt stirred in his chest. Was she really so perfect? She’d brushed off his proposal so easily… Why? Did she have someone else? Or had she seen his gray hair, his withering, and now he repulsed her?
“Lika, don’t you think I’ve changed a lot? Gone gray?” he asked anxiously.
“A bit,” she said lightly, as if they were discussing lipstick. “Maybe go to a doctor? Get checked? Then again… you’re not a young man anymore. By the way, my new wardrobe’s being delivered tomorrow. Remember I mentioned it? Will you help me assemble it? Or should I hire movers?”
“I’ll help,” he answered at once, though the dull ache in his back had become his constant companion. He couldn’t refuse her. Not in anything. “I just thought… that we were serious. That we were together…”
“We are serious, Artyom,” she said, ruffling his cheek like a child’s. “All right, off you go. I have to run. You take one road, I’ll take another. I want a little time alone.”
He left with a stone on his heart. Instead of going home, he sat on a bench in the little square across from her building, behind dense lilac branches heavy with intoxicating scent. He didn’t know why he was doing it. Instinct? Jealousy?
Soon his worst suspicions were confirmed. A luxury car glided silently up to the entrance. A minute later Lika came out—more radiant than she’d been half an hour earlier—and slipped into the passenger seat. The car pulled away and melted into traffic.
“A taxi?” he tried to fool himself. “Why, when the metro is five minutes on foot?”
A cold emptiness began filling him from the inside. Betrayal. Deceit. Everything he had believed in so blindly crumbled into dust.
“So much for your ‘good woman’,” he hissed, clenching his fists until his nails bit into his palms.
He waited until evening. Consumed by burning jealousy and hurt, he showed up at her apartment unannounced.
“Who was that man in the car?!” His voice trembled with restrained fury, his whole body taut as a wire. “And don’t tell me it was a taxi! I’m not an idiot, Lika!”
She looked at him first in surprise, then in irritation.
“Of course it was a taxi! Am I not allowed? The heels are high, the shoes are new, I don’t want to jostle in the metro. And why are you even confronting me? Who are you to me? My husband?”
“We’re in a relationship! You said it was serious! And you…”
“It was a taxi!” she shouted. “I already explained! And anyway, I never work with two at the same time!”
She broke off, eyes flying wide, as if she’d caught herself in a terrible slip. Artyom froze, staring at her. A ringing, oppressive silence filled the room.
Lika exhaled slowly, her shoulders drooping. All her brisk energy drained away, replaced by a strange, chilling weariness.
“Ah, to hell with it…” she said quietly, looking away. “You won’t believe me anyway… and who would? I’m cursed.”
And she told him. Told a story that made the blood run cold and sent icy goosebumps over the skin.
How, when she was young—naive and foolish—she believed a married man. How his wife, mad with grief, clawed at her and tore out a lock of hair, spitting a curse: “Be damned! You stole another’s happiness—you’ll never have your own! No man will stay with you for long!”
At first Lika didn’t believe it. She forgot. She met someone, fell in love, got married. A week later, her husband died in a car crash. Then there was another man. Another tragedy. Only then did it begin to sink in. She noticed that the men who came close to her started to age rapidly, wither, fall ill. The curse didn’t kill them outright if the relationship stayed superficial; it sucked the life, the strength, the youth out of them—slowly but surely.
“And then… then I found a use for it,” her voice grew firmer, a metallic note in it. “A friend told me about a neighbor—a tyrant and despot who abused his wife and kids. I arranged a ‘chance’ meeting. Made him fall for me. In two months he was a wreck. Gray, stooped. And… you know what? He went back to his wife. Crawled on his knees, begged her forgiveness. And she forgave him.”
That’s how her mission was born. Her “filthy job,” as she called it. She became a weapon of retribution for women who had no other way to stand up for themselves. She sought out such “straying” husbands, turned their heads, drew out all their poisonous energy, making them age and weaken in body and soul—then they, exhausted and broken, went back to their wives. And those wives, getting back not the former tyrant but a pitiful, gray shadow, often forgave.
“I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ll never have true love. I don’t need it. You men are all so perfect in the beginning—flowers, fixing problems, sweet talk. With odds like that, how could I not bloom? But I never allow domesticity. Domestic life is death for you. Other women… they fall into that trap—the pot-and-pan hell no one’s going to rescue them from. And then it’s their death.”
She looked him straight in the eye, and there was not a drop of lies or regret in her emerald gaze.
“I’m a good woman, Artyom. It’s just that this is my work. My choice. Your Karina wrote to me, by the way. She said you’d really gone downhill, and that she’d had enough. The rest is up to you. As for me, I’m sure another unhappy soul will find me soon.”
She fell silent. Artyom sat there unable to move, mouth open in horror. His world flipped, shattered, and reassembled into a grotesque, terrifying picture. He had been used. His life, his energy turned into small change in someone else’s game. He remembered his reproaches to Karina, his pathetic attempts to seem better… And Lika’s cold, calculating gaze.
“And what… what happens next? To me?” he barely breathed.
“You think only the young can be punished?” she smiled bitterly. “When I’m tired of all this, maybe I’ll try to lift the curse. I’ve looked into it. But not now… Go, Artyom. By the way”—she traced a circle in the air around his head—“some of it will come back. Not all. But it’ll get easier. That’s it. Leave.”
The door clicked shut in his face. He stood on the landing, forehead pressed to the cold windowpane, unable to move. Inside there was only an icy, all-consuming void.
Behind the door, Lika went to the window and watched him shuffle away with an old man’s gait. Her phone buzzed on the table. A new message. She picked it up, and that same perfect, flawless, lifeless smile returned to her lips. She read aloud into the silence of the empty apartment:
“Hello, Valeria. You come highly recommended. They said you’re… a very understanding woman. Can you help me? My husband…”
She didn’t read the rest. She set the phone down and went to the kitchen to brew tea. Very hot. Very strong. There was work ahead.
