“Katya, please don’t start, okay? Please. Put on a simpler face. People have come a long way, they’re tired, they’ve suffered enough,” Sergey blocked his wife’s path in the hallway, spreading his arms like a goalkeeper trying to catch a ball. His face carried that familiar mixture of guilty fawning and aggressive attack that always appeared when he knew he had done something nasty but wanted to make her look like the guilty one.
Ekaterina froze, without even stepping across the threshold of her own apartment. A thick, heavy smell hit her nose — wet dog, rotting shoes, cheap tobacco, all mixed with the aroma of fried onions. This stench pressed against her like a solid wall, driving out the familiar scent of her home: cleanliness, fabric softener, and faint citrus notes.
“Seriozha, move aside,” she said quietly, trying to look over his shoulder. “Why are there three strange suitcases and a sack of potatoes in our hallway? Where did these jars of pickles come from? And whose dirty boots are those on my bench?”
“Oh, here we go,” Sergey rolled his eyes and finally stepped aside. “I told you, it’s an emergency. Lyuda’s roof got torn off in the village. Literally. The slate flew to hell after yesterday’s hurricane. The house is leaking, they can’t live there until the men fix it. I couldn’t abandon them, Katya. They’re family.”
Ekaterina stepped inside, feeling sand crunch beneath the soles of her expensive Italian shoes. The floor she had washed the previous evening was covered in streaks of mud.
From the kitchen, rattling something metallic, emerged a woman of enormous proportions. Lyuda. Sergey’s second cousin, whom Katya had seen once at their wedding five years ago. Lyuda was wearing a washed-out floral robe that barely closed over her chest, and in her hands she held Katya’s favorite ceramic salad bowl, filled to the brim with something greasy and mayonnaise-based.
“Oh, the mistress of the house has finally dragged herself in!” Lyuda barked instead of greeting her, and her voice seemed to fill the entire three-room apartment. “We got hungry after the road. Seryozhka said there was nothing in the fridge, just yogurts and grass. So I had to whip something up from what we brought with us. Want some lard? Homemade. Not like that store-bought chemical garbage of yours.”
“Hello, Lyuda,” Ekaterina tried to preserve the last remnants of politeness, although cold anger had already begun to boil inside her. “How long are you staying with us?”
“As long as it takes them,” the guest waved her free hand, nearly dropping the salad bowl. “A week, maybe two. Maybe a month. The beams are rotten there, need replacing. Come in, why are you standing there like a stranger?”
At that moment, two boys of about seven and nine burst out of the living room with wild shrieks. They rushed past, almost knocking Ekaterina off her feet, and crashed into the pile of outerwear on the coat rack. Behind them, claws clicking across the laminate, bounded a huge shaggy dog of uncertain breed, looking like a cross between a shepherd and a bear. The dog barked joyfully, spraying saliva, and tried to place its dirty paws on Katya’s light cashmere coat.
“Fu! No!” Lyuda shouted lazily, stuffing a piece of lard into her mouth with her bare hands. “He’s playful, don’t be afraid. We got rid of his fleas the other day. He’s almost clean.”
Ekaterina recoiled, clutching her bag to her chest.
“Sergey,” she said in an icy tone, turning to her husband. “Can I have a word with you? In the bedroom.”
Sergey scratched the back of his head, looked away, and shifted from foot to foot.
“Um… Katyusha, here’s the thing… We can’t go into the bedroom.”
“Why?” She felt her pulse begin to pound in her temples. “Did you barricade the door?”
“Lyuda’s in there with the youngest,” he rattled off quickly, lowering his voice. “Well, think about it yourself. Her back hurts, she can’t sleep on anything hard. And our orthopedic mattress is perfect. She can’t sleep on the floor, she’s a woman of size. I made up the sofa in the living room for the boys.”
Ekaterina stared at her husband and did not recognize him. This man, who had always seemed reasonable to her, was now standing there, seriously explaining why he had given away their marital bed, their private space, to some outsider woman with a brood of children — without even calling his wife.
“Your second cousin with three children and a dog is going to live with us for a month while they fix the roof in their village?! You gave them our bedroom, and you expect me to sleep on a folding cot in the hallway?! These children have already smashed my perfume collection! I’m not a charity fund for your relatives!”
“Why do you have to put it like that?” Sergey winced. “The folding cot is good, almost new. I borrowed it from the neighbors. We’ll put it here, in the corner, behind the wardrobe. Or in the kitchen, the floor is heated there. Katya, be human. It’s temporary. Don’t be selfish.”
“Selfish?” Katya felt her breath catch.
She turned and walked toward the bathroom, just to wash her face and collect herself, so she wouldn’t start screaming right there. The bathroom door was ajar. Wet towels lay on the floor — hers, white Egyptian cotton, now gray from someone’s dirty feet.
But that was not the worst part.
On the tiled floor, among puddles of water, glittered shards. Many small, sharp pieces of glass. The air in the bathroom was stale and sickeningly sweet. It was a mixture of Chanel, Dior, and Tom Ford. The entire shelf where her perfume collection had stood — the collection she had built for years — was empty. The bottles had been swept onto the floor.
Ekaterina crouched down, ignoring the fact that the hem of her dress was getting wet. She picked up the neck of a Baccarat Rouge bottle, the one Sergey had given her for their anniversary. Empty. Thirty thousand rubles turned into garbage.
“Oh, yes, the little ones were playing around,” Sergey’s voice sounded behind her. He stood in the doorway, chewing an apple. “I told them not to touch anything, but they’re quick. Don’t worry, we’ll buy new ones. It’s just scented water, why are you killing yourself over it?”
Katya looked up at him. There were no tears in her eyes, only dry, burned-out emptiness.
“I repeat: those children have already smashed my perfume collection…” she whispered, squeezing the shard so hard it bit into her skin. “I am not a charity fund for your relatives!”
“Oh, enough already!” Sergey snapped irritably and threw the apple core into the sink, on top of the dirty dishes someone had already piled there. “Such materialism. People are in trouble, they have no roof, and you’re mourning your little bottles. You’re petty, Katya. I thought you were kinder.”
“Kinder?” She stood up, shaking glass from her palms. “You dragged a camp into my home, deprived me of my bed, allowed my things to be destroyed, and now you’re accusing me of being petty?”
“It’s not your home, it’s ours,” Sergey cut her off harshly, and steel-like notes of ownership appeared in his voice, as if he had suddenly remembered his rights. “And I have the right to invite guests. That’s it, conversation over. Go eat. Lyuda made borscht. And fix your face. Don’t spoil people’s appetite.”
He turned and left, leaving her alone in the wrecked bathroom, soaked in the smell of lost luxury and approaching catastrophe. From the hallway came a crash — Sergey was taking out that very folding cot, unfolding its rusty springs with a clatter.
“Oh, here comes the bed!” Lyuda shouted cheerfully from the kitchen. “Katyukha, you’re lucky, you’ll sleep by the radiator. Warm!”
Katya looked at her reflection in the mirror. The beautiful hairstyle she had done that morning was disheveled. Horror stood in her eyes. She realized this was not simply a visit from relatives. This was an occupation. And her husband had just gone over to the enemy’s side.
Morning did not begin with coffee or an alarm clock. It crashed into Ekaterina’s consciousness with the sharp smell of burnt onions and the thunder of falling pots. Her back ached as if she had been beaten with sticks all night — the old Soviet folding cot Sergey had dug out from a neighbor sagged almost to the floor, and a rusty spring dug straight under her rib through the thin blanket.
Katya opened her eyes and stared at the hallway ceiling. A pair of children’s legs in dirty socks flew past her face, barely missing her nose.
“Tuzik, attack! Bite him!” one of the children shouted right above her ear.
The huge dog rushed after him with a low growl, scratching the parquet with its claws, and slammed into the shaky frame of the folding cot. Katya cried out and rolled onto the floor, right under the feet of the running boy.
“Oh, Aunt Katya, are you lying here? We’re playing Indians!” the older nephew joyfully informed her, wiping his snot on his sleeve.
Ekaterina silently got up, straightening her twisted pajamas. She needed the bathroom. Urgently. Just to wash off this sticky nightmare of a night. But the bathroom door was firmly shut, and from behind it came the sound of running water and Lyuda’s off-key singing: “Oh, frost, frost, don’t freeze me…”
“Lyuda’s been splashing around in there for an hour already,” Sergey commented, coming out of the kitchen with a sandwich dripping grease. “Don’t knock, she’s shy. You can wait, you’re not a child.”
“An hour?” Katya looked at the clock. Seven in the morning. She had to send a report by ten. “Seryozha, I need to get ready for work. I have a video call with a client.”
“You’ll manage with your little pictures,” her husband waved her off, chewing sausage. “Go eat instead. Lyuda made pancakes. With lard. Delicious, like childhood.”
Katya entered the kitchen and froze. Her sterile, snow-white, high-tech kitchen, her pride, had turned into a battlefield. A huge cast-iron frying pan hissed on the induction stove, splattering grease across the glass backsplash. Potato peelings, eggshells, and onion skins lay scattered over the artificial-stone countertop. But worst of all — in the sink lay her avocados and packages of Greek yogurt.
“Oh, Sleeping Beauty is awake!” Lyuda came out of the bathroom, steamed and wrapped in only a towel, leaving wet footprints on the floor. “I cleaned out your fridge. Threw away that black rotten stuff, those shriveled pears. And that sour cream that had gone watery.”
“Those were avocados…” Katya said quietly, feeling her eye twitch. “And Greek yogurt. They cost two thousand rubles.”
“Could’ve cost a million!” Lyuda laughed, plopping down onto a chair that creaked pitifully. “A man needs proper feeding, not grass! Look how skinny Seryoga’s gotten, painful to watch. I made him pork borscht, fried cutlets. You and your diets have worn the man down completely. In our village, even pigs wouldn’t eat what you eat.”
Ekaterina silently walked to the table, trying to find at least one clean corner where she could place her laptop. She needed to work. She was a freelance architect, and her income fed this family no less than Sergey’s salary did.
“Lyuda, I’m asking you,” Katya tried to speak evenly, although her voice trembled with tension. “Don’t touch my food. And please get the children out of the kitchen. I need to work. Here. Now.”
“Oh, look at the princess!” the sister-in-law snorted, piling pancakes onto her plate. “She’s going to work. Sitting at home, poking at a computer — is that work? I work on a farm, that’s work. You’re just fooling around. Children, come here, Aunt Katya is angry, she didn’t sleep well on the little mat!”
The children burst into the kitchen with shrieks. The younger one, his mouth smeared with chocolate, grabbed a mug of sweet tea Sergey had left on the table.
Everything happened in one second.
Katya had only just managed to open the lid of her expensive, powerful laptop, which held the drawings for a shopping center — a project from the last three months. The boy tripped over the dog, which was spinning underfoot waiting for scraps, threw his arms up, and half a liter of hot, sticky tea splashed straight onto the keyboard.
The liquid hissed as it seeped into the casing. The screen blinked, filled with stripes, and went black.
Silence hung in the kitchen. All that could be heard was tea dripping from the table onto the floor.
Katya stared at the black screen. Three months of work. Deadlines. Reputation. All of it now swimming in sweet syrup.
“Oh…” the child drawled.
“What have you done?!” Katya screamed. It was not a shout; it was a howl of despair. She jumped up, clutching the useless piece of metal.
Sergey ran into the kitchen.
“Why are you yelling?” he barked, seeing the frightened nephew.
“He flooded my laptop!” Katya shook the computer, brown liquid running out of it. “Seryozha, my project is on there! Money is on there! It costs two hundred thousand!”
Sergey looked at the laptop, then at the sobbing child hiding behind his mother’s broad back.
“Katya, he’s a child!” There was no sympathy for his wife in his voice, only irritation. “He didn’t do it on purpose. So what, it’s a piece of hardware. It’ll dry and work again. Why are you raising your voice at the boy? You’re traumatizing his psyche!”
“His psyche?!” Katya choked with outrage. “Who will restore my files? Who will pay for the repairs? Your sister, whose roof flew away?”
“Don’t count money!” Lyuda burst out, pressing her son to herself. “So rich, aren’t you! So what, a computer. We have an old TV, and we live just fine. And you’re ready to devour a child over some nonsense. You’re greedy, Katka. Evil. God doesn’t give you children because you love things more than people!”
Those words struck harder than a slap. Katya and Sergey had been trying to have a child for two years, unsuccessfully so far. Lyuda knew that. And she had struck the most painful place.
Sergey was silent. He did not rebuke his sister. He did not defend his wife. He simply stood there and looked at Katya with an expression of disgust, as if she were the one who had just fouled the middle of the room.
“You’re to blame,” he finally squeezed out. “You should have put your things away, knowing there are children in the house. Turned the place into an office. You could have worked in a café, since you’re such a businesswoman.”
Katya slowly set the laptop down on the tea-soaked table. Her hands were not shaking. Something clicked inside her and switched off. The part responsible for understanding, patience, and love for this man.
“A café?” she repeated in a dead voice. “Fine. I’ll go to a café.”
She left the kitchen, stepping over the puddle of tea. Her back was straight as a taut string. Behind her came Lyuda’s offended voice, explaining to the children that “Auntie is just tired and has a bad temper.”
Katya went into the bedroom — her former bedroom, now smelling of sweat and dirty laundry — to take her charger and purse. On her and Sergey’s bed, right on the pillows, lay Lyuda’s jeans in street shoes. On the dressing table, among the remnants of cosmetics, lay half-eaten pieces of sausage.
Ekaterina took her bag. She needed to leave. Now. Otherwise, she would simply grab that chair and kill someone. But she would not throw a tantrum. Not yet. Another plan had formed in her mind.
“Katya, how much longer are you going to lie around? It’s lunchtime and we still haven’t gone anywhere!” Sergey’s voice burst into Ekaterina’s heavy, sticky sleep like the sound of a dentist’s drill.
She struggled to open her eyes. Her back, bent into a crooked shape on the sagging canvas of the folding cot, responded with a dull, aching pain. Around her, in the narrow hallway, other people’s boots were scattered, and right by her head stood a bowl of dog food that reeked of rancid meat. Saturday. The day she had once loved more than anything now felt like punishment.
“Seryozha, it’s only ten in the morning,” she croaked, trying to sit up and find her slippers, which had disappeared somewhere. “Where exactly were we supposed to go? I planned to sleep in today and try to restore the files from the cloud. Have you forgotten that your nephew destroyed my work tool?”
Sergey stood over her in a wife-beater and sweatpants with stretched-out knees. He already had an open can of beer in his hand. At ten in the morning.
“Oh, stop whining about that laptop!” he grimaced with displeasure and took a sip. “You’re young, these things happen. Anyway, here’s the plan: you get ready quickly, take the car, and drive Lyuda and the boys to the zoo. Then to the shopping mall. The little ones need jackets for autumn, and Lyuda could use some boots too.”
Ekaterina froze, not yet putting on her second slipper. She slowly raised her head and looked at her husband from below. In his eyes there was not a drop of embarrassment, only the well-fed arrogance of a man convinced everything would happen exactly as he said.
“Me?” she repeated, feeling cold fury begin to pulse inside her. “And what, may I ask, will you be busy doing?”
“I’m tired, Katya,” Sergey stretched theatrically, cracking his joints. “I worked like hell all week. Do I have the right to sit in front of the TV on my lawful day off and watch football? Besides, I’ve already opened a beer, so I can’t drive. So come on, move. I filled the tank yesterday, lucky for you.”
At that moment Lyuda floated out of the kitchen. She was dressed to the nines: leopard leggings, a bright pink rhinestone sweater, and a teased hairstyle that seemed to be held together only by sheer will and cheap hairspray. Her lips were painted with thick carrot-colored lipstick.
“Well then, little daughter-in-law, are you ready?” she asked loudly, adjusting a massive gold chain around her neck. “We’ve been waiting and waiting, and she’s still wearing out her sides. The children are already standing in the hallway dressed, sweating!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ekaterina said quietly but distinctly.
Silence hung in the hallway, broken only by the dog’s chewing as it finished off someone’s slipper. Sergey slowly lowered the beer can. Lyuda planted her hands on her hips, making her enormous figure resemble a sugar bowl.
“What?” Sergey asked, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t you understand? People came to visit. They haven’t really seen the city. You are obliged to show respect!”
“I’m obliged?” Ekaterina stood up. Even in pajamas and with disheveled hair, she somehow managed to look taller and more dignified than both of them. “I owe you nothing, Sergey. I’ve been feeding your horde for three days. I sleep in the hallway like a servant. My things are destroyed. My work is under threat. And now you want me to work as a personal driver and sponsor a shopping trip for your sister while you drink beer on my sofa?”
“Listen, you city girl!” Lyuda squealed, taking a step forward. She smelled of cheap perfume and alcohol fumes — apparently last night’s drinking had dragged on. “How are you talking to your husband? He is the head of the family! If he said drive, then drive! Look at this queen! No children, doesn’t value her man, only thinks of herself! Barren flower!”
The word lashed like a whip. Ekaterina turned pale, but did not step back.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare open your mouth in my home.”
“Our home!” Sergey shouted, slamming his fist into the wall so hard that a coat fell from the rack. “Don’t get confused about your place, Katya! Who are you here to give orders? A wife should stand behind her husband, not across from him! Is it so hard for you? You’ve got more money than you know what to do with. You could help family, buy the nephews jackets! But you’re stingy! A miser!”
“Ah, so that’s what this is…” Ekaterina smiled bitterly. “So it’s about money? You decided to play rich uncle at my expense?”
“So what if I did?” Sergey came right up to her, looming over her, pressing down with his weight and the smell of alcohol. “Are we family or what? I know you have millions sitting on your cards. And Lyuda has no roof! You’re sorry to spend money on children? Has your business turned you into such an animal?”
The children peered out of the room. They were not crying, not frightened. They watched the scandal with interest, like a show, chewing stolen candy. The older one held the television remote — the one for the huge plasma TV Katya had bought herself for her birthday.
“Uncle Seryozha, is Aunt Katya not taking us?” he whined. “You promised we’d stop at a café!”
“She’ll take you. She’s not going anywhere,” Sergey barked, not taking his bloodshot eyes off his wife. “Get dressed. Now. And smile. Otherwise I’ll make your life fun.”
“Are you threatening me?” Ekaterina looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. In that look everything died: respect, attachment, the remnants of love. Only disgust remained, like for an insect crawling across a clean tablecloth.
“I’m warning you,” he hissed in her face, spraying saliva. “Either you go now and do as you’re told, like a normal woman, or… or you’ll have only yourself to blame. I won’t care that you’re a woman. I’m tired of tolerating your sour face.”
Lyuda grunted approvingly behind his back, arms crossed over her chest.
“That’s right, Seryoga, teach the woman some sense. You spoiled her too much. In our village, the conversation is short: if you don’t want to, we’ll make you; if you can’t, we’ll teach you.”
Ekaterina silently looked at them. At this man with whom she had shared a bed for five years. At this strange, brazen woman who had occupied her life. At the children, who had already begun kicking her bag on the floor.
Something snapped inside her. The taut string broke, but not with a ringing sound — with a dull, terrible one. She no longer cared about anything. Fear disappeared. In its place came the icy calm of a surgeon taking up a scalpel to cut away gangrene.
“Fine,” she said in an even, lifeless voice. “I understand. I’ll get dressed now.”
“That’s a good girl,” Sergey smirked smugly, patting her shoulder so hard she nearly lost her balance. “You should have done that from the start. Acting all stubborn, like a gingerbread princess. Go put on makeup so we’re not embarrassed in front of people.”
He turned and went into the living room, where the television was already blaring. Lyuda, shooting Ekaterina a victorious look, trudged after him, loudly discussing with the children what ice cream they would eat.
Ekaterina remained alone in the dim hallway. She slowly exhaled. Her gaze fell on the electrical panel above the front door. The key to it lay in the drawer of the entryway cabinet, because only she knew how everything had been arranged after the renovation.
She did not go to the bathroom to put on makeup. She went to the kitchen. But not for coffee. She took from the cupboard a large, heavy jar of expired fish oil that she had meant to throw away a month ago, and a bottle of the cheapest vegetable oil.
The corners of her lips twitched into a terrible, lifeless smile. The festive dinner they wanted so badly would be served. But the dish would be cold.
“Katka, are you coming soon? I’m starving!” Sergey’s voice from the living room now sounded not merely demanding, but with that special lazy ownership that made her jaw tighten. “And grab me a beer from the fridge while you’re on your way!”
Ekaterina stood in the middle of the bedroom — the very bedroom she had furnished with such love and which now resembled a flophouse. In the corner lay a pile of Lyuda’s dirty laundry. On the dresser were pizza crusts. The air was saturated with the smell of unwashed bodies. In her hands she held a liter jar of expired fish oil. The dark, thick liquid sloshed inside like poison.
She slowly unscrewed the lid. A sharp, nauseating smell of rotten fish instantly hit her nose, overpowering even the stench of Sergey’s socks.
“Coming, Seryozha,” she said quietly, looking at the wide double bed covered with her favorite silk sheets. “I’m bringing it.”
Ekaterina turned the jar upside down. The thick, oily sludge poured in a dark stream straight into the center of the mattress. She poured methodically, not missing a single centimeter, soaking the pillows, blanket, and sheets. The grease seeped into the expensive fabric, leaving indelible, foul-smelling stains. Then came the vegetable oil — sticky, cheap, greasy. It spread across the carpet, flooding Lyuda’s scattered belongings, her Chinese bags, and the children’s toys.
The stench became unbearable. It was the smell of decay, the smell of an ending.
Ekaterina threw the empty bottles into the center of that oily swamp. Then she went out into the hallway, closing the bedroom door tightly behind her so the “surprise” would not be discovered too soon.
“Katya, did you fall asleep in there or what?” Sergey shouted again. “Lyuda, go see what she’s digging around for!”
Ekaterina approached the electrical panel above the front door. Her movements were precise, emotionless. She took the key from her pocket, opened the little door, and looked at the row of black switches.
Click. Click. Click.
The apartment went dark all at once. The television fell silent. The refrigerator stopped humming. A dead, ringing silence fell, in which only Sergey’s heavy breathing could be heard from the living room.
“Hey! What’s that?” came her husband’s frightened voice from the darkness. “The power’s out? Katya, did the breakers trip?”
Ekaterina locked the panel with the key, then threw the key with all her strength into the kitchen ventilation shaft. The clang of metal against metal sounded like a gunshot.
“No, Seryozha,” she said loudly, standing in the dark hallway. “It’s not the breakers. It’s the end of the world. A personal end of the world for your circus.”
“What are you doing, you idiot?” Sergey stumbled into the hallway, lighting his way with his phone. The beam of the flashlight caught his wife’s pale, stone-like face. “Turn it back on! The children are scared!”
“The children?” Ekaterina smirked. “I don’t care.”
At that moment the bedroom door flew open. Lyuda, who had apparently been trying to find her things by touch, rushed out of there with a wild shriek.
“Ugh! What is that smell?!” she screamed, covering her nose with her hand. “Seryoga, it stinks in there like a cattle burial pit! And everything’s wet! I sat on the bed and there was some kind of slime!”
The smell seeped into the hallway. The heavy, sticky stench of rot began filling every corner of the apartment. Sergey sniffed the air and grimaced, barely holding back a retch.
“Katya…” He shone the phone flashlight into her eyes, trying to blind her. “What did you do?”
“I made it cozy for you,” she replied calmly, without squinting. “You wanted things simple, didn’t you? Village-style? Here you go. Sleep in it now. Live in it. Your clothes, your bedding, your things — everything now smells the way you deserve. Like rot.”
“You’re sick!” Lyuda squealed, running to Sergey and grabbing his arm. “She ruined our things! My good dress! The children’s suits! Seryoga, do something! She’s insane!”
Sergey stepped toward his wife, fists clenched. In the flashlight’s glow, his face twisted with rage.
“Do you even understand how much that cost?” he growled, looming over her. “You’re going to turn the lights back on right now and start cleaning everything! Otherwise I won’t be responsible for myself! I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Ekaterina interrupted him, and steel rang in her voice, sharp enough to cut. “Hit me? Go on. Just try. I promise you, Sergey, if you so much as touch me with one finger, I’ll turn your life into such hell that this smell will seem like the scent of roses.”
She took a step toward him, forcing him to step back.
“You brought this camp into my home. You wiped your feet on me. You allowed them to destroy my work and my peace. Did you think I would endure it? Did you think I was a voiceless shadow who would serve your relatives and sleep on a mat? You were wrong. I am the mistress of this apartment. And I declare quarantine.”
“What quarantine?” Sergey blinked in confusion, stunned by her force.
“Sanitary quarantine,” she snapped. “There will be no electricity. I’m also going to shut off the water risers; the valves are in a locked box. You’ll sleep in a puddle of fish oil. There is no food — I threw everything your sister cooked down the garbage chute five minutes ago. Bon appétit.”
From the children’s room came crying. The children, frightened by the darkness and shouting, began to whimper. The dog, catching the smell of fat, joyfully charged into the bedroom and began smacking its lips over something, smearing oil with its paws across the entire parquet floor.
“Get out of here!” Lyuda screamed, stamping her foot. “This is our home now! Seryoga is the owner! We’ll throw you out!”
“Try,” Ekaterina turned and walked toward the front door. “But keep in mind: I changed the lock today while you were out walking. The second key is only with me. If I walk out this door now, you’ll be locked inside a dark, stinking gas chamber without food or water. If you break the door open, you’ll be charged with forced entry.”
She placed her hand on the door handle.
“Katya, wait!” Sergey jerked toward her, but slipped on an oil stain the dog had already managed to spread across the hallway and crashed to the floor, hitting his elbow hard. “Bitch! You’re a beast, Katka! What a beast you are!”
“No, Seryozha,” she looked down at him, at the “head of the family” floundering in filth. “I’m simply a mirror. I reflected all the shit you brought into my life.”
“I’ll file for divorce!” he shouted, trying to get up, but his hands slid across the greasy laminate. “You’ll be left alone! Who needs you, you old, childless hysteric!”
“Divorce is the best thing you can offer me,” Ekaterina smiled coldly.
She opened the door. Freshness and freedom drifted in from the stairwell.
“You have five minutes to gather your junk,” she said without turning around. “In five minutes I’m coming back. And if I see any of you still here, I’ll start throwing things out the window. And believe me, Sergey, your fishing rod collection will fly first. Along with your plasma TV.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Lyuda shrieked.
“Time starts now,” Katya threw back and slammed the door hard, remaining outside.
She leaned her back against the cold metal of the door. Her heart was pounding wildly, but there were no tears. From inside the apartment came shouting, crashing furniture, the barking of the dog, and Sergey’s foul curses as he slipped in the puddles of grease, trying to find his pants in the dark.
Ekaterina took out her phone. The screen glowed with a missed call notification from the client. She swiped it away. Right now, she had more important matters. She dialed the lock replacement service.
“Hello? Yes, I need a lock opened and replaced. Urgently. No, the keys aren’t lost. There are strangers inside. Yes, there will be a scandal. Come with security, I’ll pay triple.”
She knew that in an hour her apartment would be clean. Empty. And quiet. And the smell… the smell would air out. The main thing was that the most terrible source of the stench — her ex-husband and his relatives — would disappear from her life forever.
