The next day, Thursday, Irina came home from work earlier than usual: her shift ended at two instead of eight. It was quiet in the department, and the head nurse let her go early. On the way home, she went to the store, bought chicken, potatoes, and green onions. Maybe she would cook a proper dinner, and they would talk, like they used to? Maybe she was just imagining things, and one sincere conversation was all it would take to set things right?
The house was quiet. Andrey wasn’t in the living room, nor in the kitchen. Irina put down the grocery bags and listened. A muffled male voice was coming from the study. Andrey was talking to someone on the phone. She moved closer. The study door was slightly ajar.
— I told you, by the end of the month, — Andrey’s voice was tense, almost breaking. — No, not yet. It will be soon. I’m getting everything in order.
A pause.
— Yes, I understand. You think it’s easy for me? But there’s no other way. You yourself said this is the only option.
Another, longer pause.
— She doesn’t know anything. She won’t find out. On Friday morning she’ll be at work, I’ll do everything.
Irina froze. Her heart started pounding so loudly that it seemed audible throughout the house.
— The signatures… Yes, the signatures are fine, I’m telling you. No one will check anything. By noon, everything will be ready.
The blood drained from her face. Irina backed away from the door, trying not to breathe. Signatures. Getting something in order. On Friday, when she would be at work.
She quickly went to the kitchen, took the chicken out of the bag, turned on the water, and started washing it, though her hands were trembling so much the chicken almost slipped into the sink. What was happening? What was he planning?
A minute later, Andrey walked into the kitchen. His face was pale, with sweat on his forehead.
— Oh, you’re already home, — his voice sounded tense. — Early today.
— They let me go early, — Irina didn’t turn around, continuing to fuss with the chicken. — I’m going to make dinner.
— I see. I’ll… go lie down. My head hurts.
He left without even asking what dinner she was planning to cook, though he always used to be interested. Irina stood by the sink, staring at the stream of water.
Signatures. To get in order. On Friday.
The apartment. Their apartment was registered in her name, in Irina’s name. It was her privatized property, inherited from her parents. Andrey was just registered there, but she was the owner. Could he really…? No, that’s impossible. Was he planning to do something with the apartment? Her hands trembled even more. Irina turned off the water and leaned against the edge of the sink. She needed to calm down. To think. Maybe she misunderstood the conversation? Maybe it was something work-related? Although, what did Friday and her absence from home have to do with it?
The whole evening, Irina was in a kind of daze. She cooked dinner mechanically, ate without tasting the food. Andrey sat opposite her, also silently picking at his plate. They used to discuss their day over dinner, share news, make plans. And now only the clinking of forks on plates broke the silence.
— Andryusha, — Irina finally ventured, — is everything okay with us?
He looked up, and something flickered in his eyes… Fear? Guilt? But it was gone in an instant.
— What do you mean?
— Well, with money, with work. You’ve been so tense lately.
— Everything’s fine, — he cut her off. — Just tired. Complicated projects. Don’t worry about it.
And he went back to his plate. The conversation didn’t happen.
That night, Irina couldn’t sleep for a long time, lying next to her snoring husband. His back was turned to her, and there was something distant, rejecting about his posture. They used to fall asleep cuddling, and now even in their sleep, they kept their distance, as if there was an invisible wall between them.
Irina stared into the darkness and thought. Tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow morning, she has a shift from eight in the morning until three in the afternoon. She usually leaves at seven-thirty, and Andrey is still asleep at that time: he’s a night owl, rarely gets up before ten. But what if she didn’t leave tomorrow? What if she stayed home?
“You’re going crazy,” she told herself. Ready to skip work, to lie to her boss, all because of some old woman’s words?
Comments are closed.