— she asked, wiping her hands on a towel.
— I’ve eaten. — He stood up, shoving his phone into his jeans pocket so quickly it was like he was hiding evidence. — I’m going to lie down, my head hurts.
And he went into the bedroom without even asking how her day had been. Irina was left standing in the kitchen, looking at the leftover potatoes in the pan, at the dirty plate he hadn’t even bothered to put in the sink.
Eighteen years together. They used to talk about everything, share little things, laugh at silly stuff. He would meet her after work with flowers just because, for no reason. She would cook his favorite meal. And now they were like strangers under one roof, roommates in a communal apartment, nothing more.
She poured herself some tea and sat at the table. On the calendar hanging on the wall next to the refrigerator, it was Wednesday, October 23rd. Two days until Friday.
“On Friday, you be the first to open the door,” the fortune teller’s words echoed in her head.
What nonsense! What could happen on a Friday? A regular day, a regular morning shift from eight to three, then home, maybe stop by the store. But the anxiety wouldn’t leave. It sat somewhere in the pit of her stomach, a heavy lump that couldn’t be swallowed or spit out.
Irina finished her tea and went to the bathroom. While the tub was filling, she looked at herself in the mirror, fogged up from the hot steam. A tired face with fine lines around the eyes, gray strands in her dark hair that she had long stopped dyeing. When had she gotten so old? When had life turned into an endless series of shifts, cooking, laundry, and silent evenings with her husband? When had they stopped being a family and become just people living side by side?
She undressed and sank into the hot water, closing her eyes. The old woman’s words surfaced again and again. “If your husband opens the door, there will be trouble.” What kind of trouble? Why her husband specifically? Why Friday?
Andrey had been acting strange lately. Nervous, withdrawn, irritable. He hid his phone, cut conversations off mid-sentence. Irina thought: maybe there’s another woman? Eighteen years together, the passion had long faded, routine had set in. Maybe he found someone younger, brighter, without perpetually tired eyes and hands that smelled of hospital chlorhexidine. But something told her that wasn’t it. She knew her husband well enough to understand: this wasn’t infatuation, it was something else. Fear, maybe?
Strange details from the past few weeks came to mind. Andrey had started going somewhere frequently on weekends, saying he was at his friend Maxim’s dacha, helping fix a fence. But when Irina happened to call Maxim to ask for a barbecue marinade recipe, he was surprised: what dacha, he had sold it three years ago. A couple of times, she saw Andrey quickly close his laptop when she entered the room. Once, she found some business card in his jacket, but before she could see it, he snatched it away and hid it, almost roughly pushing her hand away.
Irina opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling, where shadows from the light bulb swam. Maybe she was being paranoid? Maybe he was just tired of life, of her, of everything? Men his age often go through a midlife crisis. Forty-five years old, working on a contract basis, no stability. Maybe he was afraid he couldn’t provide for the family. Although, what family? They never had children: first they postponed it, then it turned out to be too late.
But the old woman’s words gave her no peace. “On Friday, you be the first to open the door.” What if it wasn’t just the ramblings of an old woman? What if there was some truth to it? Irina wasn’t superstitious, but she had worked as a nurse long enough to see things science couldn’t explain. The grandmother in intensive care who said exactly a day before her death that she saw her late husband by the window. The girl who woke up from a coma the very moment her mother finished a prayer. Maybe there are things in the world that a rational mind can’t comprehend?
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