— Not for a second.
— And what about them? Have you heard anything?
— Klara Mikhailovna told me, — Kira replied. — After that New Year’s Eve, Zhanna Borisovna threw a tantrum at Artem. She demanded that he bring me back. And when she realized I was already gone, she turned on him. Said it was all his fault, that he didn’t keep me. And then it suddenly turned out that the apartment was his. She was in shock. She thought she was the owner, but it turned out to be her son. Now she walks on tiptoes, afraid he’ll actually evict her.
— And him?
— He’s doing nothing. Sits at home, looking for a job. Or pretending to. Zhanna Borisovna now fusses over him. Cooks, cleans, doesn’t say an extra word. Afraid of losing the roof over her head.
Her friend snorted:
— Justice has prevailed.
— Yes, but it’s no credit to me. They drove themselves into this corner.
Kira ran into Artem by chance six months after the divorce in a shopping mall. He was walking with bags, looking haggard, in an old jacket. He saw her and was flustered. Kira stopped.
— Hi.
— Hi. — He lowered his eyes. — How are you?
— Good. And you?
— I’m okay. Found a job. In logistics. The pay isn’t great, though. — A pause. Artem shifted from foot to foot. — Kir, I wanted to say… I’m sorry. Really. I understand everything now. Too late, of course, but I understand.
Kira looked at him and suddenly realized she felt nothing. No anger, no pity. Just emptiness.
— It’s okay, these things happen. Good luck.
She walked on without looking back.
In the summer, Kira met someone new. A programmer who was renting an apartment nearby. They bumped into each other at a coffee shop where they both liked to get their morning cappuccino. They got to talking, called each other, met again, and then again. No vows, no promises. Just two adults who were interested in each other.
One day he asked:
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