“My husband was sure that groceries ‘just appear in the fridge by themselves.’ I stopped going to the store — and he stopped being so cocky.”
Alice stood by the window, looking out at the winter Moscow landscape, slowly turning her wedding ring around her finger. On the kitchen table lay a supermarket receipt. Long and white, like a capitulation, it wound its way between the sugar bowl and a half-finished cup of coffee.
Roma, her husband, sat across from her, studying the receipt with the expression of a prosecutor who had uncovered embezzlement on an especially grand scale. He was handsome in that glossy, slightly plastic kind of way that does not fade with age, but only grows more brazen.
“Did you seriously buy cheese for four hundred rubles?” Roma raised his eyebrows so high they nearly touched his hairline. “Alice, that’s robbery. What, have gourmet mice moved into our house? I read on some finance blogger’s page that processed cheese product is no different in composition. It’s all marketing.”
Alice sighed. Here it came. Another lecture from a man who had last been in a grocery store sometime in the age of prehistoric materialism.
“Roma, it’s not cheese for four hundred. It’s two hundred grams of cheese for four hundred. And it was on sale,” she shot back calmly. “And that processed cheese product you’re talking about only melts along with the plate.”
Roma snorted and leaned back in his chair. He clearly felt like master of the situation.
“You simply don’t know how to run a household, darling. A woman should be the keeper of the hearth, not a spendthrift. I’m sure that if you approach the matter intelligently, you can cut expenses in half. Food is not a luxury. In fact, it should cost next to nothing if you know where to shop. But you’re too lazy to look.”
“Lazy?” Alice felt a cold fury begin to boil inside her. “Fine. Let’s do this. Since you’re such an expert in logistics and finances, I’m declaring a moratorium. For one month, I’m not going to the store. At all. We’ll live on your ‘hidden reserves’ and whatever your brilliant mind manages to procure.”
Roma broke into a smug smile, straightening the collar of his shirt.
“Elementary, Watson. You’ll see how a real man handles things. Bet that in a week you’ll be begging me to teach you how to save money? I’ll order everything we need in two clicks right now, and there’ll still be enough change left over for beer.”
Without a word, Alice picked up the receipt, rolled it into a ball, and with a neat flick sent it into the trash can.
“We’ll see, Roma. We’ll see. But no calling your mother and complaining that you’re being starved.”
“Oh please, like I need your help,” he waved her off, pulling out his phone. “I’ll find a promo code now, and the couriers will come running themselves.”
He began poking at the screen, muttering something about “stupid women” and “the system.” Alice leaned against the doorframe.
“Roma, that promo code expired yesterday. And it was only for the first order, which you placed three years ago,” she noted quietly.
Roma froze. His finger hovered over the screen, and for a moment his face twisted like that of a child whose candy had just been taken away, but he immediately slapped his mask of superiority back on.
“Pff, that was just a test run! I’ll find another one. Strategy is what matters!”
He jerked his hand sharply, the phone slipped out, and with a dull thud fell straight into a bowl of oatmeal. Splashes flew onto his perfectly ironed shirt.
Roma sat there dripping with porridge, like a monument to human stupidity that someone had forgotten to cover before restoration.
The first two days passed in an atmosphere of cold war. Roma demonstratively finished off the borscht Alice had made before “the great dispute,” and every time rolled his eyes to show how delicious it was and how independent he remained. Alice said nothing. She ate at work and drank tea in the evenings.
On the third day, the refrigerator revealed its true, white, empty soul.
The morning began with a crash. Roma was looking for sausage.
“Alice! Where do we have… well… that… cervelat?” he shouted from the kitchen.
“In the store, Roma. The very same one where prices are all just marketing,” she called back from the bedroom, applying face cream.
Roma came into the room, no longer quite so polished. Stubble was pushing through his confidence, and his stomach was growling so loudly it sounded as though a tiny tractor had started up inside him.
“Listen, enough sulking already. I got caught up with work yesterday and forgot to order. Make me some fried eggs, I’m in a rush.”
“Out of what?” Alice turned to him. “We ran out of eggs on Tuesday.”
“How did we run out?” Roma asked in genuine surprise. “They were always there! In the door!”
“They were there because I put them there, darling. They don’t just walk in by themselves. They don’t have little legs.”
Roma frowned. He decided to go on the attack.
“You’re just being spiteful. There’s probably a stash somewhere. A normal housewife always has reserves. Some grain, canned meat…”
He lunged toward the cupboard with the dry goods, yanked the door open, and triumphantly grabbed a jar.
“Aha! There! Buckwheat! I told you! I’ll cook it now and rub your nose in it!”
Alice did not even turn around.
“Roma, that’s birdseed for the parrot we haven’t had for two years. I use that jar for salt now. It’s salt. Coarse salt.”
Roma froze, the jar in his hand. Slowly he opened the lid, licked his finger, dipped it into the contents, and tasted it. His face twisted, turning into something like a baked pear. He coughed, dropped the jar, and the salt came crashing down onto his socks in a white waterfall.
He stood in the middle of a pile of salt, red-faced and pathetic, like a polar explorer who had been forgotten on a drifting ice floe.
That same evening, Elena Andreevna, his mother, called.
“Alice dear, hello,” her voice sounded cheerful. “Listen, what’s going on over there? Romka called asking to borrow some money ‘until payday.’ Says you’ve put him on a diet, you little tyrant. He’s joking, of course, but his voice sounded sad.”
Alice gave a dry chuckle.
“Elena Andreevna, we’re running an experiment. Roma is proving that groceries are nonsense and that they simply appear in the house by the power of masculine thought.”
Her mother-in-law was silent for a moment, then burst into a low, chesty laugh.
“Oh, idiot… takes after his father. He used to think dust disappeared by itself too, until I went away on a business trip for a month. I came back, and he’d worn little paths through the hallway. Hang in there, daughter. If anything, come over to my place for dumplings. But I won’t let him in — let him learn.”
It was powerful support. But Roma did not give up. His wounded ego demanded revenge. And he came up with a plan that, in his mind, was supposed to destroy Alice morally.
On Friday he came home beaming. In his hands was a bag. A small one. Something made of glass clinked inside it.
“Alice,” he announced solemnly, “tomorrow we’re having guests. Vadim Petrovich and his wife.”
Alice nearly dropped her book. Vadim Petrovich was Roma’s boss, the man on whom his bonus and career depended.
“Are you out of your mind?” she whispered. “There’s nothing in our fridge except light and the smell of hope. What are you going to feed them?”
“Well, darling, this is your chance to redeem yourself,” Roma carelessly tossed a five-hundred-ruble note onto the table. “I, for my part, bought a bottle of wine. And you come up with the appetizers. Salads, something hot, whatever you do. Show some class. Don’t embarrass me in front of the boss. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”
“Five hundred rubles?” Alice stared at the banknote as if it were an insect. “Roma, with that you can buy bread, eggs, and a packet of mayonnaise. Do you want to feed your boss egg-and-mayo sandwiches?”
Roma rolled his eyes, fixing his hair in the hallway mirror.
“Oh, stop playing poor. I know you’ve got supplies in the freezer. Chicken, meat, whatever. A woman should know how to make a scandal, a hat, and a salad out of nothing. Use your imagination! You’re a clever girl when you want to be…”Alice stood by the window, looking out at the winter Moscow landscape, slowly twisting her wedding ring around her finger. On the kitchen table lay a supermarket receipt. Long and white, like a surrender flag, it snaked between the sugar bowl and a half-finished cup of coffee.
Roma, her husband, sat across from her, studying the receipt with the expression of a prosecutor who had uncovered embezzlement on a particularly grand scale. He was handsome in that glossy, slightly plastic way that does not fade with age, but only grows more brazen.
“Did you seriously buy cheese for four hundred rubles?” Roma raised his eyebrows so high they nearly touched his hairline. “Alice, that’s robbery. What, do we have gourmet mice in the house now? I read on some finance blogger’s page that processed cheese product is no different in composition. It’s all marketing.”
Alice sighed. It was starting. Another lecture from a man who had last been in a grocery store sometime before the dawn of historical materialism.
“Roma, it’s not cheese for four hundred. It’s two hundred grams of cheese for four hundred. And it was on sale,” she replied calmly. “And that cheese product you’re talking about melts only together with the plate.”
Roma snorted and leaned back in his chair. He clearly felt he was in control.
“You just don’t know how to run a household, darling. A woman is supposed to be the keeper of the home, not a spendthrift. I’m sure that if you approach this intelligently, you can cut expenses in half. Food is not a luxury. Basically, it ought to cost next to nothing if you know where to shop. You’re just too lazy to look.”
“Too lazy?” Alice felt a cold fury begin to boil inside her. “Fine. Let’s do it this way. Since you’re such an expert in logistics and finance, I’m declaring a moratorium. For a month, I’m not going grocery shopping. At all. We’ll live on your ‘hidden reserves’ and whatever your brilliant mind manages to procure.”
Roma spread into a smug smile as he adjusted the collar of his shirt.
“Elementary, my dear Watson. You’ll see how a real man handles things. Bet you’ll be begging me in a week to teach you how to save money? I’ll order everything we need in two clicks right now, and still have enough change left for beer.”
Without a word, Alice picked up the receipt, rolled it into a ball, and flicked it neatly into the trash can.
“We’ll see, Roma. We’ll see. But no calling your mother to complain that you’re being starved.”
“Oh please, I don’t need your help,” he waved her off, pulling out his phone. “I’ll find a promo code, and the couriers will come running.”
He started stabbing at the screen, muttering something about “stupid women” and “the system.” Alice leaned against the doorframe.
“Roma, that promo code expired yesterday. And it was only for the first order, which you placed three years ago,” she remarked quietly.
Roma froze. His finger hovered over the screen, and for a second his face twisted like a child’s whose candy had just been taken away. But he quickly put his mask of superiority back on.
“Pff, that was just a test run! I’ll find another one. Strategy is what matters!”
He jerked his hand too sharply, and the phone slipped free, landing with a dull plop in a bowl of oatmeal. Drops splattered all over his perfectly ironed shirt.
Roma sat there, dripping porridge like a monument to human stupidity that no one had bothered to cover before restoration.
The first two days passed in an atmosphere of cold war. Roma demonstratively finished off the borscht Alice had cooked before “the great dispute,” and every time he rolled his eyes as if to show how delicious it was and how independent he remained. Alice said nothing. She ate at work and drank tea in the evenings.
On the third day, the refrigerator revealed its true white and empty soul.
The morning began with a crash. Roma was looking for sausage.
“Alice! Where’s our… you know… cervelat?” he shouted from the kitchen.
“In the store, Roma. The very same one where prices are all marketing,” she called back from the bedroom, applying face cream.
Roma came into the room looking much less polished. Stubble was beginning to break through his confidence, and his stomach was growling so loudly it sounded as if a small tractor had started up inside him.
“Listen, enough sulking. I got swamped yesterday and forgot to place the order. Make me some fried eggs, I’m in a rush.”
“Out of what?” Alice turned toward him. “We ran out of eggs on Tuesday.”
“How did we run out?” Roma looked genuinely shocked. “They were always there! In the door!”
“They were there because I put them there, darling. They don’t walk in by themselves. They don’t have little legs.”
Roma frowned. He decided to go on the offensive.
“You’re just being spiteful. There’s probably a stash somewhere. A normal housewife always has reserves. Some grain, canned meat…”
He lunged toward the cupboard with the dry goods, threw open the door, and triumphantly grabbed a jar.
“Aha! There! Buckwheat! I told you! I’ll cook it now and rub your nose in it!”
Alice did not even turn around.
“Roma, that’s birdseed for the parrot we haven’t had for two years. I use the jar for salt now. It’s salt. Coarse salt.”
Roma froze with the jar in his hand. Slowly he opened the lid, licked a finger, dipped it into the contents, and tasted it. His face twisted into something like a baked pear. He started coughing, dropped the jar, and the salt came crashing down in a white waterfall onto his socks.
He stood in the middle of the salty heap, red and pitiful, like a polar explorer who had been forgotten on a drifting ice floe.
That same evening, his mother, Elena Andreevna, called.
“Alice, sweetheart, hello,” her voice sounded cheerful. “Listen, what’s going on over there? Romka called asking to borrow money ‘until payday.’ Says you put him on a diet, you little tyrant. He’s joking, of course, but he sounded sad.”
Alice gave a dry chuckle.
“Elena Andreevna, we’re conducting an experiment. Roma is trying to prove that food is nonsense and that it appears in the house by the power of male thought alone.”
Her mother-in-law was silent for a second, then burst out laughing, a deep, chesty laugh.
“Oh, idiot… takes after his father. He thought dust disappeared by itself too, until I left on a business trip for a month. When I came back, he’d worn little trails through the hallway. Hang in there, daughter. If anything, come over to my place for dumplings. But I won’t let him in. Let him learn.”
It was powerful support. But Roma did not give up. His wounded ego demanded revenge. And he came up with a plan that, in his mind, would morally destroy Alice.
On Friday he came home beaming. In his hands was a bag. A small one. Something glass clinked inside it.
“Alice,” he announced ceremoniously, “tomorrow we’re having guests. Vadim Petrovich and his wife.”
Alice nearly dropped her book. Vadim Petrovich was Roma’s boss, a man on whom his bonus and career depended.
“Have you lost your mind?” she whispered. “There’s nothing in the fridge but light and the smell of hope. What exactly are you going to feed them?”
“Well, darling, this is your chance to redeem yourself.” Roma casually tossed a five-hundred-ruble bill onto the table. “I, as it happens, bought a bottle of wine. And you figure out the appetizers. Some salads, a hot dish, whatever it is you do. Show some class. Don’t embarrass me in front of my boss. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”
“Five hundred rubles?” Alice looked at the bill as though it were an insect. “Roma, that will buy bread, eggs, and a jar of mayonnaise. Do you want to feed your boss egg-and-mayo sandwiches?”
Roma rolled his eyes and adjusted his hair in the hallway mirror.
“Oh, stop playing poor. I know you have reserves in the freezer. Chicken, meat, something. A woman should know how to make a scandal, a hat, and a salad out of nothing. Use your imagination! You’re a clever girl when you want to be.”
He winked at her and went off to take a shower, whistling.
“Use my imagination?” Alice whispered into the empty room. “You’ll get imagination, Roma. You’ll get such a salad that you’ll be digesting it for the rest of your life.”
Saturday. Evening. The apartment gleamed with cleanliness—Alice had done that on principle. The table was covered with a white tablecloth. The best dinner set was laid out. Crystal glasses sparkled.
Roma was nervous. He kept pacing from the window to the door, adjusting his tie.
“Where’s the food? Where are the smells? Why doesn’t the kitchen smell like something delicious?” he hissed.
“It’s all in the oven, darling. A surprise. Served hot,” Alice smiled mysteriously. She was wearing an evening dress, beautiful and calm as a boa constrictor before dinner.
The doorbell rang. Vadim Petrovich turned out to be a heavyset man with a flushed face; his wife was a petite lady with tightly pursed lips.
“Come in, come in!” Roma gushed with politeness. “Tonight it’s just a modest homemade dinner, but Alice… my wife… she’s a magician. She could make porridge from an axe!”
The guests sat down. Roma poured the wine—cheap, discounted wine that made Vadim Petrovich grimace almost imperceptibly.
“Well then, hostess, don’t keep us waiting!” Roma said loudly, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. “Bring us the masterpiece!”
Alice gave a solemn nod and went into the kitchen. A minute later she returned carrying a huge silver platter covered with a gleaming lid. She set it down in the center of the table.
Everyone froze. The air smelled of intrigue.
“This is a special dish,” Alice said in a sweet voice. “My husband’s recipe. It’s called ‘Male Economy.’”
Roma went pale. He sensed trouble, but there was no way back.
With a dramatic gesture, Alice lifted the lid.
On the enormous platter lay the simplest of fare: neatly sliced bread, rounds of boiled egg, and a thin lattice of mayonnaise—tidy, almost pointedly respectable. Nothing festive, nothing special. Just food. And yet that very ordinariness looked somehow like a slap in the face.
The pause dragged on. The air grew thick, and no one dared be the first to pretend that this had all been planned.
Vadim Petrovich looked from the platter to Roma. His wife pressed her lips together until they disappeared completely.
“Is this… supposed to be a joke?” the boss asked hoarsely.
Roma tried to smile, but it came out more like the grin of a skull.
“Uh… well… it’s… contemporary art… a performance…” he bleated, trying to save the situation, but the words stuck in his throat. “Alice just has… a particular sense of humor… Ha-ha…”
“Excellent humor,” Alice said loudly. “Roma believes food grows in the refrigerator like mushrooms after rain. And that spending money on it is wasteful. So please, Vadim Petrovich, help yourself. This is the budget approved by your lead analyst.”
Roma leapt to his feet.
“You! What do you think you’re doing?!” he shrieked in a falsetto. “You’ve humiliated me! In front of my boss!”
“Me?” Alice raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I simply fulfilled the brief. You gave me the budget, and you gave me the task: ‘Make a salad out of nothing.’ Well, here it is—a salad made out of reality. Bon appétit.”
At that moment, the lock clicked in the hallway. It was Elena Andreevna. She had her own keys and had apparently decided to check whether her daughter-in-law had survived. She entered the room carrying a huge pot wrapped in a towel. The smell of real homemade dumplings instantly filled the apartment.
Her mother-in-law swept her gaze over the scene.
“Oh, I’m right on time,” she declared in a booming voice. “I see Roma is presenting his business plan?”
Vadim Petrovich suddenly burst out laughing. Loudly, heartily.
“Elena Andreevna! Our savior!” he said, getting to his feet. “Roman, you should learn from your mother and your wife. With this kind of economy, you won’t just fail a quarterly report—you’ll starve to death.”
Roma stood there gulping air like a man who had always been the one “handling things,” only to discover that things were being handled perfectly well without him.
The evening ended unexpectedly warmly. Vadim Petrovich happily ate Elena Andreevna’s dumplings, praised Alice, and completely ignored Roma, who sat in the corner like a beaten dog, chewing on a dry crust of bread—the only thing left in the breadbox.
When the guests had gone, Roma, emboldened, tried to make a scene.
“You… you’re a monster!” he hissed. “You set me up! I’ll never forgive this! You were supposed to make it work!”
Without a word, Alice took a suitcase out of the closet.
Roma’s suitcase.
“What are you doing?” he faltered.
“Making it work, Roma. Getting out of your life. Only since the apartment is mine, you’ll be the one getting out. To your mother’s.”
“To Mom’s?” Roma stared at her. “She won’t let me in…!”
Elena Andreevna, who had been washing the dishes, dried her hands and turned around.
“Why wouldn’t I? Of course I’ll let you in. The fence at my dacha is sagging, and the vegetable patch needs digging. And you know, son, the store out there is far away. Very far away. You can practice materializing food out of thin air. Stay a month or so—you’ll lose weight and maybe gain some sense.”
Roma looked from his mother to his wife. The world in which he had been king and god was collapsing around him.
“But I… I work… I can’t go live at the dacha…” he mumbled pitifully.
“You’ll work remotely. I turned off your internet to save money,” Elena Andreevna delivered the final blow. “You can send your emails by carrier pigeon. You’re our master of unconventional solutions, aren’t you?”
Roma left an hour later. One suitcase and a bag of pasta that Alice handed him “for the first few days.” He looked hunched and small, as if all the air of self-satisfaction had been let out of him.
Alice closed the door.
Alice smiled. For the first time in a month, she felt not like a housewife, not like a “spendthrift,” but simply like a happy woman who had just won the most important battle of her life. And the refrigerator no longer seemed empty—it was ready to be filled with whatever she chose herself. Without advice, reproaches, or “economists” with holes in their pockets.
