So, the guest had made herself completely comfortable, now commanding not only the furniture but also the appliances in her home.
Kira finished the dishes, wiped the sink meticulously, and cleaned the countertop. Her hands no longer trembled. She turned off the water. In the ensuing kitchen silence, she could hear her own steady breathing. The break she had taken was over. There was no more hiding, no point in seeking compromises. She took off her apron and hung it on its hook. She looked at her reflection in the dark glass of a kitchen cabinet. A woman with large gray eyes and tightly pressed lips. The weariness in her gaze had been replaced by cold determination. She didn’t know what she would do next, but she knew exactly what she would not do. She would not remain silent. She would not allow her fortress to be turned into a public thoroughfare. She took a deep breath and, with slow, firm steps, walked back into the living room. To war.
Returning to the living room, Kira felt how the very atmosphere of the room had changed. The air, which just an hour ago had seemed light, filled with the scent of new wood, had now thickened, grown heavy, as if saturated with alien, stale smells of a different life, different thoughts. The television on the wall, bought on installment and which had until now brought Kira a sense of childish joy, now looked like a noisy, intrusive stranger. Excited voices of politicians, interrupting one another, blared from the screen. Larisa Andreevna, half-reclining on the sofa, watched the screen with the same focused and stern expression with which she probably once signed vacation requests or issued reprimands. She was in her element, a world where someone was always right and someone was wrong, and her task was to unerringly determine who was who.
Roman still sat in the armchair, almost completely hidden behind his phone. Hearing Kira’s footsteps, he reluctantly raised his head, and in his gaze, she read a plea: “Just don’t start. Be patient. It will be over soon.” Kira looked away. She didn’t want to see his weakness, that “puppy-dog,” guilty expression. She silently walked around the table and sat on the only free chair, placing herself somewhat on the sidelines of the main action unfolding between the sofa and the television. She felt like a spectator in her own theater, where the lead role had been given to another actress without her consent.
About ten minutes passed. The show on the screen was replaced by a commercial for some yogurt. Larisa Andreevna grimaced with displeasure.
— All empty, — she muttered into the void. — Just chemicals. In our time, we had kefir, real kefir: in a glass bottle with a green foil cap, alive, healthy. And what is this? Poison for the stomach.
She sat up, stretching her stiff back.
— Oh, my back… I need to stretch, walk around a bit.
And she stood up. Not like a guest who politely walks around the room, but like an owner making their morning rounds. Slowly, in her ugly gray slippers, she moved along the wall. Kira followed her with her eyes, and every movement of the guest resonated within her as a dull irritation. Larisa Andreevna walked to the window, touched the curtain with her finger. The curtains were made of a heavy, gray-blue fabric. Kira had spent a long time choosing them. She wanted them to match the sofa and create a cozy feeling.
— Synthetic, — Larisa Andreevna declared authoritatively, rubbing the fabric between her fingers. — Just collects dust, doesn’t breathe. And the color… like a hospital. You need something cheerful here, with flowers. And tulle, definitely tulle, so people can’t look in from the street. Otherwise, you’re living in a fishbowl.
She said this not to Kira, but as if to herself, yet loud enough for everyone to hear.
Roman looked up from his phone.
— Mom, what are you talking about? It’s the style now, — he tried to object, but his voice sounded so uncertain that he might as well have stayed silent.
— Style, — Larisa Andreevna snorted. — Style comes and goes, but coziness… that’s eternal. It’s not cozy here. It’s sterile, like an operating room. Not a picture on the wall, not a crocheted doily. There’s no soul.
She moved on, towards the bookshelf. It was a low combination of shelves, also from IKEA, simple and concise. Books stood on the shelves. Not many, about thirty. The ones Kira loved and reread. A few art albums, a couple of volumes of Chekhov, Bunin, contemporary prose.
— Hardly any books, — she stated, running her finger along the spines. — In our day, every engineer, every decent person had a full library. They collected classics, through subscriptions. And now? One cover is brighter than the next, but inside, it’s empty.
Kira clenched her fists under the table. Every word was a small nail being driven into her world, her taste, her life. Everything she had created with such love was being declared wrong, soulless, second-rate. And the worst part was that she felt her own confidence beginning to crack under this pressure. Maybe the curtains were a hospital color? Maybe there really weren’t enough books? This woman possessed a terrible talent—to poison everything she touched with doubt.
Larisa finished her inspection tour at a small dresser from the same series as the bookshelf. On the dresser stood a lamp, a photo of Kira and Roman taken last summer in the park, and a neat stack of papers. These were receipts, bills, some work documents that Kira was planning to sort through on the weekend. She was a tidy person, and even her mess was organized.
— Dust! — Larisa Andreevna announced with satisfaction, running her finger across the glossy surface of the dresser and showing everyone the barely visible gray film on her fingertip. — You need to clean more often, girl! Cleanliness is next to godliness!
Kira remained silent. It was becoming harder to breathe. She was waiting for this nightmare to end. But it was just beginning. Larisa Andreevna, with the air of an expert, flicked away the non-existent dust, and her gaze fell on the stack of papers.
— Oh, what do you have here? Bills, are they?
She picked up the top sheet without the slightest hesitation, as if she had every right to do so. It was a pink utility bill. She put on glasses, which she took from the pocket of her housecoat—which she had discreetly changed into while Kira was in the kitchen, presumably pulling it from the same bottomless bag—and brought the bill closer to her eyes. At that moment, as if on cue, Roman dived back into his phone, sensing the approach of a new wave of conflict and preemptively shielding himself from it…
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