— I told you—Olivier salad! — Vladimir stood on the threshold, red-faced, and reeked of beer. — Normal wives cook, but where have you been wandering?
— I was at work, — Marina held onto the doorframe, her legs were giving way. — It was a rush job, I haven’t slept for a day…
— I don’t care! — he grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her towards the stairs. — Other women are proper women, but you’re one in name only!
Marina backed away onto the landing. Vladimir stepped after her, his eyes darting around.
— Volodya, wait, I’ll be quick…
— Get out, — he pushed her in the chest, not hard, but she stumbled and sat down on the steps. — And don’t show your face here again.
The door slammed shut. The lock clicked, then the chain. Marina sat on the cold concrete in her housecoat, unable to process what had just happened. A moment ago she was walking up the stairs, thinking how good it would be to finally lie down, and suddenly—this.
From behind the door came the sound of the TV. Vladimir had turned on “The Irony of Fate”. She went down one flight of stairs. Her legs were aching—eight hours on her feet, carrying trays of bread loaves, while others had a pre-holiday day off.
The stairwell smelled of cats and was cold. The door opened again. Vladimir threw something dark down. — Here, at least put something on, you disgrace.
Marina picked up the jacket—an old, child’s one, the one she wore in the fifth grade. She had kept it in the mezzanine closet, for no good reason. She pulled it on over her housecoat. The sleeves were bursting at the seams, and it wouldn’t close over her chest.
She stuck her hands in the pockets—maybe there was at least a hryvnia lying around. The lining of the right pocket was torn, and her fingers felt something flat inside. She pulled it out—a small booklet, yellowed, worn. A bank passbook. In her name….
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