— Nastyukha! Where do you think you’re sneaking off to? The fun is just getting started! — he awkwardly tried to grab her by the arm. — Come over to my place! Or let’s hit some club! Remember the old days, huh?
Anastasia’s life resembled a smooth, evenly paved road without a single bump, sharp turn, or steep descent. For two years now, she had been married to Igor. If some women’s magazine ever decided to create a portrait of the ideal husband, they would undoubtedly use Igor as the model. He was tall, calm, incredibly hardworking, and reliable as a Swiss watch.
Igor did not drink at all, did not disappear with friends on weekends, brought every ruble he earned home, and seemed unable to breathe without his Nastya. He remembered every anniversary date, knew what kind of coffee she preferred in the morning, and was ready to rush to the ends of the earth at her first call to fulfill any whim.
And that was exactly what irritated Nastya.
As people say, domestic routine had eaten her alive. This endless, predictable, sugary perfection caused a dull, aching melancholy in the young woman. Returning from work to their cozy, renovated apartment, Nastya already knew what awaited her. Igor would greet her with a smile, take her bag, ask how her day had gone, and a freshly cooked dinner would be simmering on the stove.
No Italian passions, no smashed plates, no sudden breakdowns or reckless acts. Everything was too proper, too bland. Nastya was twenty-seven, yet she felt like a pensioner whose life had been scheduled decades in advance. She wanted sparks, butterflies in her stomach, a touch of madness, but instead she received hot tea with lemon whenever she began to cough and a warm blanket over her shoulders.
“Is it really going to be like this forever?” she thought, watching her husband enthusiastically assemble a new dresser for the bedroom. “Home, work, vacations by schedule, then children, diapers, the dacha… Deadly boring.”
She did not appreciate what she had, taking Igor’s care for granted. It seemed to her that real life — bright, pulsing, full of romance and surprises — was passing by somewhere outside the window of their quiet, comfortable apartment.
Everything changed one rainy Wednesday evening. Nastya was sitting on the sofa with a tablet, lazily scrolling through the news feed on the social network VKontakte while Igor watched a documentary about space. Suddenly, a notification flashed in the corner of the screen. Nastya had been added to a new group chat with the loud title: “11B — 10 Years Later!”
The girl’s heart skipped a beat. Ten years? Had so much time really passed since they had left the walls of their old school? She opened the chat, which was already bursting with dozens of messages. Former classmates were greeting one another, sending current photos, talking about their achievements, and, most importantly, discussing the upcoming reunion. The event was scheduled exactly one week later at one of the best restaurants in their city.
Nastya put the tablet aside, leaned back against the sofa, and closed her eyes. Her memory instantly carried her into the past, erasing the boundaries of time. School corridors, the smell of chalk, the sound of the bell, and… him. Vasily.
Vasya had been Nastya’s first and brightest love. In the eleventh grade, half the girls not only in their year but in the entire school had been crazy about him. Tall, slim, with a thick mop of unruly light-brown hair, a dazzling smile, and constant laughter in his bold eyes. He wore a leather jacket, played the guitar, spat on rules, and seemed the embodiment of the very freedom Nastya lacked so much now.
They had dated for almost their entire final school year. It had been a stormy, emotional relationship. They kissed behind the school garages, skipped chemistry lessons, walked in the rain, and swore eternal love to one another. But after graduation, everything fell apart. Nastya, who had always been ambitious, got into a prestigious university and told Vasya that now she had a completely different, interesting, adult life ahead of her. It seemed to her that Vasya, with his unwillingness to study and lack of clear plans for the future, would drag her down.
They broke up foolishly. She threw harsh words at him, expecting him to chase after her, beg her to stay, and prove his love. But Vasya… Vasya was not particularly upset. He simply shrugged and said, “Well, suit yourself,” and just a month later he was strolling through the park with a first-year student from the teachers’ college. That quick consolation wounded Nastya’s pride so badly that she erased him from her life, removed him from all her social media friends lists, and forbade herself to think about him.
But now, ten years later, the resentment had faded, leaving only sweet, romantic nostalgia. Nastya remembered his hot hands, his laughter, his confidence. A plan instantly formed in her bored mind.
“What if this is fate?” she thought, glancing sideways at Igor, who was peacefully dozing off in front of the television. “What if we meet, look into each other’s eyes, and realize those ten years were a mistake? Vasya must have settled down by now and become a successful man. He was so bright, so talented! We have a chance to bring everything back.”
The entire next week, Nastya lived as if in a fog. She mechanically went to work, mechanically answered Igor’s questions, while in her head an endless romantic film was playing with her and Vasily in the leading roles.
In her mind, she was already divorcing her husband. Nastya replayed scenes of their farewell in her head. She imagined how gently but firmly she would tell Igor that she had fallen in love with someone else, that their marriage had been a youthful mistake. “Igor is good; he’ll understand everything and let me go without scandals,” she reasoned to herself. “We won’t divide the apartment. I’ll simply pack my things and leave for a new, real life. A life full of emotion and passion.”
She prepared for the class reunion as if it were the Academy Awards ceremony. Nastya visited every expensive boutique in the shopping center until she found it — a stunning dress in a deep emerald color that perfectly emphasized her figure and made her eyes even brighter. The dress was indecently expensive, but Nastya paid for it with her credit card without hesitation. Money did not matter for such an occasion.
On the day of the event, she took time off work. From early morning, Nastya went to the beauty salon. They gave her a luxurious hairstyle — large Hollywood curls that fell softly over her shoulders. The makeup artist worked magic on her face, creating expressive evening makeup: flawless tone, a light blush, emphasis on the eyes, and sensual nude lipstick.
When Nastya returned home and put on the emerald dress, she could not tear her gaze away from her reflection in the mirror. A fatal, self-confident, incredibly beautiful young woman was looking back at her.
Igor, who had returned from work early, froze in the bedroom doorway when he saw his wife.
“Nastyusha… You look absolutely breathtaking,” he admired sincerely, stepping closer and gently kissing her temple, careful not to ruin her makeup. “Your classmates are going to faint. Should I call you a taxi? Or drive you there?”
“No, no, I’ll call one myself,” Nastya answered hastily, feeling a slight prick of conscience. “Rest, Igorek. I’ll probably be late. We haven’t seen one another for ten years, after all.”
“Of course, darling. Have fun. And call me if anything happens. I’ll come get you at any moment,” her husband smiled warmly.
For some reason, his calmness and trust irritated Nastya again. “He isn’t even jealous!” she snorted inwardly as she sat in the back seat of the taxi she had called. “No fire at all.”
The restaurant “Golden Age” greeted her with the muted glow of crystal chandeliers, the scent of expensive perfume, and roasted meat. Nastya handed her coat to the cloakroom attendant, fixed her curls, and, taking a deep breath, stepped into the banquet hall, from which the hum of voices and laughter could already be heard.
She entered the hall with her head held high, expecting all eyes to turn toward her. And that was exactly what happened. Classmates gathered in little groups around the buffet table began turning around. Delighted exclamations rang out. Her girlfriends gasped, and the men clicked their tongues approvingly. Nastya smiled and accepted compliments, but her eyes feverishly scanned the room in search of one single person.
“Nastyukha! Wow, look at you! You’re like a movie star!” Svetka, the class monitor, ran up to her. “Come on, we’re gathering at that long table over there.”
Nastya approached the table. She greeted people she had not seen in ages, politely answered routine questions about work and marriage, but anxiety was growing inside her. Vasya was not there. Had he not come? Had all this masquerade, this dress, these thoughts of divorce — all of it been for nothing?
Suddenly, someone heavily clapped her on the shoulder.
“Well, hello there, top student! Who are you looking for?”
Nastya turned around. A man stood before her. He was dressed in a light shirt that was clearly too small for him and treacherously stretched over a solid, protruding beer belly. Drops of sweat glistened on his puffy face, which had taken on an unhealthy reddish shade. His hair, once thick and unruly, had thinned significantly, revealing deep receding hairlines. The man looked tired, rumpled, and at least five years older than his true age of twenty-seven. He reeked of cheap tobacco mixed with the cognac he had already drunk.
Nastya smiled politely but distantly at the stranger, trying to remember who he was from the parallel class.
“Excuse me, I think we…” she began.
The man burst into loud, rolling laughter, exposing yellowed teeth.
“Come on, Nastyukha! Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me! I must be getting rich, then! It’s me, Vasya! Your Vasyok! You’re something else, girl!”
It was as if Nastya had been struck over the head with a blunt object. The ground disappeared from under her feet, and her ears rang. With wide eyes full of genuine horror, she stared at this flabby, unkempt man and could not believe that the hero of her school romance was standing in front of her. That same handsome Vasya for whom, just a week earlier, she had mentally destroyed her marriage.
“Vasya?” was all she managed to force out through pale lips. “Hi… You… you’ve changed a lot.”
“Of course! I’ve matured! Become a respectable man!” he declared smugly, not noticing her shock. “Come on, sit next to me. Let’s remember our youth, so to speak!”
He unceremoniously grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her toward the chairs. Nastya, in a state of deep numbness, obediently sat down.
The evening turned into exquisite torture for Anastasia. She sat in her luxurious emerald dress, with her perfect hairstyle, and felt as if she had fallen into a bad, surreal dream from which it was impossible to wake up.
Vasily kept his oily, greasy gaze fixed on her. All evening, he tried to violate her personal space: he moved his chair too close, tried to put his arm around her shoulders, or leaned right toward her ear, breathing on her with the smell of fumes and onions from the salad.
“So, Nastyukha, how’s young life treating you? Married, I bet?” he asked loudly, pouring himself yet another shot of vodka, though everyone else was drinking wine or champagne.
“Yes, I’m married,” Nastya answered dryly, moving to the very edge of her chair.
“And what’s your husband like? Some boring manager, I suppose? Ah, remember how we used to light it up? Remember how we ran away from the gym teacher? That was life! Not like now — home, work, mortgage. Boring as hell!” Vasya downed the shot in one gulp and stuffed a piece of ham into his mouth, chewing loudly.
He had absolutely no idea how to behave around women. He did not offer Nastya juice, did not pass her a napkin, but regularly made vulgar, obscene compliments about her that left Nastya not knowing where to hide from shame.
“Your figure’s become something else! You used to be skinny as a board, but now you’re a real peach!” he guffawed, winking at her so hard his face folded into unpleasant creases. “Can your husband handle such treasure? If not, just call me. Vasyok is always ready to help an old friend!”
The classmates sitting nearby exchanged awkward glances and looked away. Vasily’s jokes were crude, unfunny, and openly vulgar. Nastya felt the blush of shame flooding her face, neck, and chest. She wanted the ground to swallow her.
At that moment, a terrible but absolutely clear realization came to her. If back then, ten years ago, she had not shown character, if she had stayed with him out of fear of loneliness… this would have been her life. Life with a man who, at twenty-seven, looked forty; who did not know how to behave in society; whose greatest dream was a bottle of cheap alcohol in the evenings and greasy jokes. She would have dragged him through life on her own shoulders, listened to that chewing every day, washed his stale shirts, and slowly withered beside him.
Suddenly, Nastya remembered Igor. She remembered his clean, ironed T-shirts, his habit of opening doors for her, his quiet, intelligent laughter. She remembered how carefully he covered her with a blanket when she fell asleep on the sofa. How foolish, how infantile and ridiculous her own irritation at his “perfection” seemed to her now! She had been spoiled by having a real man beside her and had dreamed of trading him for… this.
When the clock hands passed ten in the evening, Nastya’s phone vibrated in her purse. The familiar, calming word appeared on the screen: “Husband.” She grabbed the phone as if it were a lifebuoy. Slipping out from behind the table, Nastya hurried into the relatively quiet lobby of the restaurant.
“Yes, Igorek,” her voice trembled with restrained tears of relief.
“Nastyusha, hi. Am I interrupting? It sounds like you’re having fun there, judging by the music,” her husband’s calm, deep, velvety voice came through the phone. At the mere sound of it, warmth spread through Nastya’s body. “I just wanted to know whether everything was all right. Are you tired?”
“Igor…” Nastya swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “Come get me. Please. As soon as you can.”
The relaxed notes instantly disappeared from her husband’s voice, replaced by steel-like composure.
“Did something happen? Did someone hurt you? I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Go out to the foyer and wait there.”
“No one hurt me. Everything is fine. I just… I just really want to go home. To you,” she said sincerely.
Ending the call, Nastya went to the cloakroom. She hurriedly took her coat and did not even return to the hall to say goodbye. She had no time for manners. She wanted only one thing — to be safe inside her “boring” apartment.
But as she stood by the exit, adjusting the belt of her coat, the doors of the hall swung open, and Vasily stumbled into the lobby. His gait was already unsteady, and his eyes had gone completely cloudy.
“Nastyukha! Where do you think you’re sneaking off to? The fun is just getting started!” he awkwardly tried to grab her by the arm. “Come over to my place! Or let’s hit some club! Remember the old days, huh? Leave your dull husband alone for one evening!”
Nastya pulled her hand away in disgust.
“Vasily, I’m sorry, but I have to go. My husband is coming to pick me up.”
Vasya smirked, not believing her words. Apparently, he thought his schoolboy charm still worked flawlessly.
“Oh, come on, stop lying! What husband at ten in the evening? Come on, don’t play hard to get! I saw the way you looked at me all evening!”
Nastya did not answer. She pushed open the heavy glass doors and stepped out onto the restaurant porch. A fine, cool drizzle was falling outside. Vasya, unwilling to give up, followed her out in just his shirt, continuing to mutter something about how “guys like him don’t get dumped” and how he was ready to “show her real life.”
At that moment, a nice foreign car smoothly pulled up to the porch, cutting through the puddles with its headlights. The car came to a gentle stop, and Igor quickly stepped out.
He was wearing a stylish dark coat, beneath which a perfectly fitted sweater could be seen. Straight back, confident stride, calm and strong-willed gaze. He approached the porch and instantly assessed the situation: his wife, shivering from the cold, and a drunken, unkempt man hovering beside her.
Vasya fell silent. He stood on the porch, blinking with reddened eyes, staring at Igor. All his drunken bravado vanished somewhere. Confused, he shifted his gaze from the elegant car to the well-groomed, respectable man who radiated absolute confidence and strength. At that moment, the contrast between them was so striking that even Vasily’s fogged brain understood it.
Igor did not make a scene, shout, or wave his fists. He did not need to. He simply walked up to his wife, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind, and gave Vasily a brief nod.
“Good evening.”
There was so much dignity in that simple greeting that Vasya only mumbled something unintelligible in response, backing toward the restaurant doors.
Igor opened the passenger door for Nastya, offered her his hand, helped her sit down, carefully closed the door, and got behind the wheel. The car pulled away smoothly, leaving behind the shining lights of the restaurant and the confused man from the past, who remained standing in the rain as the embodiment of shattered illusions.
Inside the car, it smelled of Igor’s expensive perfume and coffee. Quiet, calm music was playing. The heater came on, warming Nastya’s chilled feet.
“Are you cold?” Igor asked softly, covering her icy hand with his large, warm one. “How was the reunion? Do you regret going?”
Nastya looked at her husband’s profile. At his sharp cheekbones, his serious eyes carefully watching the road, his strong hands confidently holding the steering wheel. And suddenly she began to cry. They were quiet tears of cleansing. Tears of shame for her foolish thoughts about divorce and tears of incredible happiness that she had come to her senses in time.
For a long time, she would still scold herself for nearly destroying her life because of a phantom from the past. For confusing reliability with boredom and real, deep love with youthful hormonal outbursts.
“No, Igorek,” Nastya whispered, squeezing his hand in return and pressing her cheek against his shoulder. “I don’t regret going at all. Today I understood the most important thing in the world. I understood how much I love you. And how lucky I am to have you. Let’s go home.”
Igor was slightly surprised by his wife’s sudden sentimentality, but he did not ask unnecessary questions. He simply kissed the top of her head affectionately and smiled. And Nastya looked out the window at the wet city streets and knew with absolute certainty: she would never again be bored in her “golden cage.” Because it was not a cage at all, but a real, reliable fortress built for her by the best man on earth. And now she would protect that fortress with all her strength.
