– Marish, where are you stuck? We ran out of cucumbers, and Valerka is asking if there’s any hot food left,
because just nibbling on bread isn’t very elegant! – Sergey’s voice came from the living room, hoarse after yesterday’s noisy celebration, overpowering the sound of the TV, which was showing Shurik’s adventures for the hundredth time.
Marina stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at a single point. Or rather, not a point, but a mountain.
It was a real Everest, a monumental structure of dirty plates, salad bowls with congealed mayonnaise, greasy baking trays, glasses with wine sediment, and sticky juice cups.
It seemed as if this pile of dishes had a life of its own, breathing the smell of booze and yesterday’s Olivier salad, threatening to collapse onto the floor like an avalanche at any moment.
The clock showed twelve noon. January first. The day when the whole country keeps eating leftovers and lazily switches channels, enjoying their well-deserved idleness. The whole country, but not Marina.
She looked at her hands. The skin on her fingers was still dry and rough from yesterday’s marathon. On December thirty-first she had gotten up at seven. Cooking, chopping, frying, steaming.
“Marish, pass me that,” “Marish, bring this,” “Marish, where’s the corkscrew?” She only sat down at the table five minutes before midnight to make a wish. What wish? “I just want to rest.”
It seemed the Universe didn’t hear her. Or it heard, but decided to laugh.
Into the kitchen, staggering and scratching his stomach under a stretched T-shirt, came Valera – her husband’s best friend.
– Oh, hostess! – he greeted cheerfully, trying to focus his gaze on Marina. – We lost you! Listen, Svetka asked for some tea. With lemon, her head hurts. And that… the cake? Your “Napoleon”? Come on, bring it, we’ll heal our bodies!
Marina slowly turned her head. Valera was grinning from ear to ear, flashing a gold crown. He didn’t even look at the sink, packed to the brim. For him, the dirty dishes were a blind spot.
Dirty dishes were as natural a part of the landscape as wallpaper or the chandelier, and they were supposed to disappear by magic in the housewife’s hands.
– Valer, – Marina said quietly. – The kettle is on the stove. The cake is in the fridge. The knives are in the drawer.
Valera froze, blinking in confusion.
– I don’t get it. Is this self-service? Marish, what’s wrong with you? We’re guests. And it’s not a man’s job to dig through drawers. It’s not hard for you, you know where everything is.
In the doorway appeared Sergey. He looked rumpled but determined.
– Mas’, what are you doing there? People are waiting. Make the tea quickly, cut some sandwiches with caviar, there was still a jar, right? – he nodded toward the sink. – And… the dishes need washing too. There are no clean forks, how will we eat the cake? By hand, or what?
Something snapped inside Marina. A thin, barely audible sound, like a tightened string breaking. She remembered last night. Ten guests.
Noise, chaos, toasts to the “keeper of the hearth,” who had kept the hearth going nonstop for two days. She remembered that at three in the morning, when the last guests
(Valera and Svetka, who stayed on the sofa) finally went to bed, she still spent an hour clearing the table so the leftovers wouldn’t go stale. Sergey had just gone to sleep then, saying, “Leave it, we’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
And now “tomorrow” had arrived. Only in Sergey’s understanding, it meant Marina would deal with it.
– I’m not washing the dishes, – she said firmly.
Sergey, reaching for a piece of sausage, froze.
– What?
– I said I’m not washing the dishes. And I won’t make tea. And I won’t cut sandwiches. I’m tired. I have a day off.
Valera laughed, thinking it was a New Year joke.
– Oh, Sergey, mutiny on the ship! Look, your wife is really swinging! Seriously, Marinka, comedian! But seriously… we’re hungry, no rescue.
But Sergey, who had known his wife for fifteen years, knew it wasn’t a joke. He frowned, and his voice took on metallic notes Marina disliked.
– Marin, stop the concert. Don’t embarrass me in front of my friends. What got into you? It’s New Year’s, everyone is resting…
– Exactly! – Marina interrupted, and her voice unexpectedly rang.
– Everyone is resting! You are resting, Valera is resting, Svetka is resting on the sofa. And me? I was in the kitchen all day yesterday, and again this morning? Am I hired help? A dishwasher with tea-serving capabilities?
– You’re a woman! – Valera presented the “iron” argument, pointing his finger in the air. – Keeper of the home’s comfort. It’s your duty.
– Whoever it’s assigned to already has it assigned, – Marina retorted. – Sergey, look at this mountain. See? Two hours of work. I don’t want to. I want to walk.
– Walk? – Sergey’s eyes widened. – Where? It’s minus fifteen! You’ve gone crazy! And the guests?
– The guests are adults. They have hands. And so do you. Here, – she pointed to the sponge and the bottle of dish soap. – Fairy, water, sponge. Simple algorithm: lather, rinse, put on the drying rack. You can handle it.
– Marin, don’t be silly! – Sergey got genuinely angry. – What are you talking about? Five minutes of work!
– Five minutes? – Marina smiled bitterly. – If it’s five minutes, then you can definitely do it. Conversation over.
She turned and left the kitchen.
– Hey, where are you going? – Sergey shouted after her. – The tea?!
Marina didn’t answer. She went to the bedroom, where the guests’ outerwear lay in a heap on the bed. Disgustedly, she pushed Svetka’s coat aside and pulled out her own warm ski pants, a sweater, and a down jacket.
She dressed quickly, like a soldier on alert, afraid her determination would evaporate, that the habit of being a “good wife” would take over.
In the hallway, her husband blocked her. Hands on hips, red and flustered.
– Are you serious? You’ll just leave like this, leaving us? With dirty dishes and no food?
– The fridge is full, Sergey. Two buttons in the microwave. The dishes… let them be. Or let Valera do it. Or Svetka. They also ate.
– Svetka is a guest! – Sergey protested. – How could I force a guest to wash?
– And a wife, I suppose I can force? Don’t you care?
– What does it matter? It’s your duty! That’s how it’s done! My mother always washed, and she didn’t fall apart!
– Then call my mother, let her come and wash, – Marina threw, fastening her boots. – I quit.
She opened the door and slammed it behind her.
Outside, it was cold and surprisingly quiet. The city was asleep. Rare passersby, mostly dog walkers, trudged along snow-covered paths. The air was clean, sharp, with faint remnants of fireworks.
Marina breathed deeply, feeling the cold air fill her lungs, pushing out the kitchen stench and resentment. For the first five minutes, she walked fast, almost ran, driven by adrenaline and anger.
In her head, angry dialogues clicked that she hadn’t finished.
“I should have mentioned the baking tray! I scrubbed it for three hours before baking! I should have reminded him he promised to help with the slicing, and then he buried himself in tanks!”
As time passed, the anger slowly receded, replaced by a strange, long-forgotten feeling of freedom.
