The last phrase was a blow to the gut. He recoiled as if I had hit him. His face contorted, he wanted to shout something, object, accuse, but he couldn’t. I struck at his sorest point — his ego, his financial pride. I beat him on his own field. He turned around silently, went into the room, and slammed the door with all his might.
And I remained standing in the hallway in my new coat. And for the first time in many months, I felt neither humiliation nor fear, but the intoxicating taste of victory. The taste of revenge. And it was sweeter than the most expensive parmesan.
Another month passed. One afternoon, in the middle of the workday, a call came from Denis. I was surprised; he almost never called me at work.
— Alina, I’m coming home, — he said in a strange, hollow voice.
— Did something happen? Why so early?
— I’ll talk at home.
He hung up. My heart skipped a beat unpleasantly. I asked my boss for time off and went home. Denis was already there. He was sitting in the kitchen at the table, in the same clothes he had left in the morning, staring at one point, white as a sheet. The keys to the BMW lay on the table in front of him.
— Denis, what happened? — I asked, approaching cautiously.
He slowly raised his empty eyes to me.
— It’s over. The end.
— What is “the end”? Speak normally.
— Our showroom is losing the dealership. The contract with the Germans wasn’t renewed. Today they gathered everyone and announced it. Half the department is being laid off. Effective immediately. Me too.
He pronounced the words with difficulty, as if they were getting stuck in his throat. I was silent. Not a drop of pity stirred inside me, only cold detached curiosity. I wonder what he is thinking about first?
As if hearing my question, he dropped his head into his hands and groaned:
— What will I do, Alina? How will I pay for the car? I have a payment in a week. Pay with what? That’s it, they will take it away.
Just as I thought. Not “how will we live,” but “how will I pay for the car.” His world collapsed because his favorite toy, his status symbol, was under threat.
He looked up at me, full of despair and hope. He expected support from me, expected me to say: “It’s okay, honey, we’ll manage, we’ll break through, I’ll help.” He looked at me, his wife, and sought salvation in my eyes. But I looked at him like a stranger and saw before me not a beloved man in trouble, but simply a loser, a greedy petty egoist who had driven himself into a corner.
— Alina! — he started again, but I interrupted him. I didn’t want him calling me by an affectionate name. Not now.
— What should we do? — he repeated like an echo.
I took a step back, crossing my arms over my chest…
Comments are closed.