The car keys hit the kitchen table with a clatter that sounded funereal to me. Denis followed, but there was not a shadow of joy on his face from the purchase he had been buzzing my ears about for the last six months. No euphoria. Only gray, drained fatigue and poorly concealed panic.
He pulled off his jacket and threw it on a chair.
— Well, congratulations, — I tried to smile. — Happy, BMW owner?
He didn’t answer, just walked to the table, pushed the keys aside, and placed several sheets of paper held together by a paperclip in front of me. The payment schedule. I glanced at the numbers, and my mouth went dry. The monthly installment amount was almost equal to my entire salary.
— We’ll manage, — I said uncertainly. — We’ll come up with something, cut expenses.
— Cut? — he sneered viciously, without a drop of amusement. — I’ve already cut, Alina, everything I could, and now it’s your turn.
He pulled another crumpled receipt out of his pocket, this time from the supermarket, and poked his finger at it.
— What is this?
— A receipt? I can see it’s not a ticket to the Bolshoi Theatre.
His voice began to gain strength.
— Look here. Cheese, parmesan. Eight hundred hryvnias. Are you out of your mind? Eight hundred hryvnias for a piece of smelly cheese? And what is this? Coffee beans. We ran out of instant.
— Denis, it’s just cheese. I wanted to make pasta the way you like it.
— The way I like? — he laughed, throwing his head back. — Do you know what I like right now? I like having at least something left in my account at the end of the month. I climbed into a debt pit for status, for this damn car, so that we would be respected, so that people wouldn’t look at me like a nonentity. And you, you are squandering money on your whims.
His face turned purple. I looked at him and didn’t recognize him. Where had my loving, calm husband gone? Before me stood a stranger, an embittered man with burning eyes.
— These aren’t whims, it’s ordinary food, — I whispered.
— Ordinary food? That’s it, Alina, your ordinary food is over. From this second, everything changes for us. Separate budgets. I will pay for my dream, — he nodded at the keys, — and my half of the utilities. You pay for yours, understood?
I was silent, trying to process what I had heard. Separate budgets? We had been married for five years, everything had always been shared.
— You’re silent, didn’t you understand? I repeat for the particularly gifted. From today on, you pay for yourself: for food, for cosmetics, for your tights, and for your smelly cheese. We will only chip in for the apartment and utilities. Fifty-fifty. The rest is each person’s personal money. And God forbid I see that you took even a penny from my card.
He loomed over me, looking point-blank.
— Did you understand me?…
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