— And you haven’t looked for anyone else? Haven’t tried to sort out your personal life?
He shook his head, and something flickered in his eyes — either old pain or resignation. Then she said the words she hadn’t expected from herself:
— Tikhon Ignatievich, let’s get married. You and me. Tomorrow, at the registry office.
He looked at her across the table for a long time, and she saw the corners of his lips tremble.
— Why would you want that, Nelli Lvovna? — he asked quietly, without mockery. — Why do you need an old cook from a factory cafeteria?
— I don’t know, — she answered honestly, feeling her tongue get tied. — But you are the only man this whole cursed evening who didn’t try to evaluate me, weigh me, and estimate my market value.
The pause seemed to last an eternity.
— Alright, — he finally said. — I agree.
Nelli vaguely remembered him paying her bill, leading her out of the restaurant, holding her by the elbow, and putting her in a taxi. She fell asleep in the car, leaning on his shoulder, and the last thing she remembered was a feeling of warmth and peace.
In the morning, Nelli woke up in her own apartment with a splitting headache, finding a note on her bedside table written in neat, old-fashioned handwriting: “Registry office, 2:00 PM. 5 Akademika Koroleva Street. I’ll be waiting. Tikhon.”
For a good fifteen minutes, she sat on the bed, holding her head in her hands, trying to convince herself to call, apologize, and cancel this madness. To blame it all on alcohol. But then the oily gaze of Yaroslav flashed before her eyes, and her mother’s voice echoed in her ears: “Well, when?” And Nelli got up.
Tikhon was waiting at the entrance. Dressed in an old but neatly ironed white shirt and black shoes polished to a mirror shine, he looked older than his years next to her designer suit. But he smiled at her so simply and openly that her doubts receded. The registration procedure was quick — the request to shorten the waiting period was approved without any questions when Tikhon stated the reason: “Bride’s urgent business trip.”
— I need to go to the market for groceries, — he said after the ceremony, putting away the marriage certificate. — You should go to work, Nelli Lvovna, don’t be late. I’ll be waiting for you in the evening at this address, we’ll celebrate there.
He handed her a folded piece of paper and left.
The whispering started in the elevator. Two girls from accounting were discussing the news of the day:
— Have you heard? Klimova got married. To the cook from our cafeteria, can you imagine?
— No way, it can’t be! Is she that desperate? Or maybe she’s pregnant, that’s why she’s in a hurry…
Nelli kept her back straight and pretended to be deaf. The summons to the CEO’s office came two hours later. The secretary, Lenochka, delivered the invitation with a face as if Nelli was being called to a firing squad…
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