— Thirty-nine point two — I said into the void, as if speaking to the air.
The reply came muffled, as if the voice were trapped under a thick, cotton blanket.
Vitaliy stood in the bedroom doorway. He hadn’t entered the room for three hours — ever since I sneezed the first time. He pressed his back against the wall,
as if those few extra centimeters could protect him from the viruses flying around our “two-room” apartment.
— See? — he muttered, pulling the sleeve of his T-shirt up to his nose.
— I told you not to take the subway. Didn’t I?
The ceiling slowly spun counterclockwise in front of my eyes. I didn’t want a lecture. I wanted a glass of sour fruit juice and someone to straighten the crumpled pillow.
But Vitaliy stayed far away. A safe distance, as if waiting in line at a checkout.
— Water, please. And check the medicine cabinet, see if there’s anything left for the fever?
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His posture displayed that same expression I had seen all twenty-five years whenever trouble arose: the desire to disappear.
As if he wanted to vanish until everything resolved itself.
— Leni, don’t do this. I’m going in there, and your… viruses are there — he laughed nervously, but his eyes stayed cold.
— Listen, I have an important meeting with clients tomorrow. A major project. If I collapse, we’ll lose money. Did you think about that?
I closed my eyes.
Would I be thinking about money when every joint in my body ached, as if someone was twisting them out of place?
— Just water, Viti. Just water.
He disappeared into the hallway. I heard the faucet start in the kitchen. The sound of water seemed mockingly loud in the ringing silence.
A few minutes later he returned, but he didn’t enter the room. He set the glass on the floor by the doorway.
— You can pick it up when I step away.
It felt like feeding a wild animal in a zoo. I stared at the glass, and a cold, sticky, unpleasant shiver ran down my spine.
Then it started — what I had feared, but perhaps had been waiting for all my life.
The sound of a sports bag crinkling came from the hallway.
Swish.
Pause.
Swish.
I struggled to prop myself up on my elbows. My head was heavy, like iron.
— Where are you going?
Vitaliy stepped into the hallway. He had already changed: jeans, a fresh sweater. A mask on his face. In his own apartment.
— Leni, look for yourself — he began in the same tone he always used to explain why he couldn’t go dig potatoes at the dacha.
— There are only microorganisms here right now. The ventilation is bad. I’m going to my mother’s. I’ll stay a few days while you… recover. She has a free couch.
— You’re leaving? — my voice sounded strange. Hoarse and somehow very weak.
— I’m close to forty degrees. I might need help.
— Then call a crew! — he was genuinely surprised.
— The phone is in your hand. And how would I help? I’m not a doctor.
I would just get sick myself, and we’d both be lying here. Who would that make things easier for? I’m healthy, I’ll earn money, then I’ll bring groceries… I’ll leave them by the door.
“Later.”
He fidgeted in the hallway. I heard him opening the fridge. Glass clinked. A bag rustled.
— I grabbed lemons, okay? — he shouted from the front door.
— And honey. Mom asked for it; she ran out. You can’t have sweets anyway, it’s too much strain.
I lay there and stared at the glass on the threshold. Three meters away. It felt like a kilometer.
He took the lemons. He took the honey. He took his precious health, packed into a sports bag.
— Did you take the keys? — I asked. That was the only thought that came to me. The reflex of a seasoned wife.
— I took them, I took them. Don’t worry. Heal, Leni. Drink lots of water. And… don’t call me now, okay? I want to sleep before work, and your voice… sounds sick. It annoys me.
The lock clicked like a gunshot.
Double turn.
Silence.
One adult
I was alone. The apartment smelled of his cologne and my sweat. The phone on the table vibrated — a bank notification: “Payment. Supermarket. 350 rubles.” Probably bought something else for the trip.
Strangely, panic didn’t hit me. Along with Vitaliy, a restless, sticky fear had left the apartment. No one whined, no one was afraid of catching something, no one demanded guarantees of safety.
I reached for the phone. The screen was blurry, but my fingers remembered the motions.
Delivery app. Everything I needed. Vitamins. Spray. Juice. Chicken broth.
“Estimated wait time — 15 minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock. Stumbling, holding onto the walls, I reached the hallway. The package hung on the handle.
The delivery guy, whom I had never seen, did more for me for two hundred rubles than my husband had in twenty-five years.
I drank the hot broth. I shivered, but my mind cleared suddenly, like a frosty morning.
There was exactly as many adults in the apartment as could bear responsibility. Only me.
And if I can handle it alone, why do I need someone who’s afraid of even my breath?
My hand automatically reached for the phone. Not to call my husband. I opened search. In the search bar, slowly, with effort, I typed:
“Emergency lock change. 24/7.”
The technician from the service arrived quickly. Red, sleepless eyes, he looked at me, scanned my terry robe, but didn’t ask unnecessary questions.
— Do you want to replace the lock or just the cylinder? — he asked businesslike, taking out his tools.
— The whole thing — my voice was still hoarse but firm.
— The most secure one, then.
The drill shrieked as it bit into metal. That sharp sound worked better than any pill. It was like slicing the past into metal shavings.
When the technician handed me the new set of keys, heavy, still oiled, I exhaled for the first time that day.
— Where should I put the old ones? — he gestured at the removed lock.
— Throw them away, please.
The next three days passed in silence.
Vitaliy didn’t call. He had clearly taken his mission to preserve his own health seriously. Or he just enjoyed his mother’s pastries and the absence of a weak wife nearby.
I was recovering.
A marvelous thing: the body recovers faster when no one paces around with a grumpy face. No one sighs, no one demands dinner (“you’re home anyway”), no one turns the news on loudly.
I slept as much as I wanted. Ate right in bed. The apartment aired out. Silence was no longer frightening. It became restorative, healing.
On the third day, the fever was completely gone. I got up, took a long shower.
Washed off the sticky feeling of humiliation. Put on clean pajamas. Brewed strong tea with lemon — the same one the courier brought to replace the lemons my husband had taken.
And then the lock creaked.
“The key is stuck.”
I froze with the cup in my hand.
The creaking repeated. Persistent, irritating. Someone tried to force the key that no longer fit. Then the handle was jerked. Once, twice.
Then a ringing. Long, demanding.
I approached the hallway slowly. My heart beat steadily. No tremor.
— Leni! — my husband’s voice came from the stairwell.
— Are you home? What’s wrong with the lock? The key won’t go in! Open up!
I went to the door but didn’t open it.
— The key isn’t stuck, Viti — I said loudly.
— The key just isn’t from here.
Silence hung behind the door. Apparently, he was processing the information.
— What do you mean “not from here”? You changed the cylinder? Why? Leni, what have you done? I’m tired, I came from work, my mom’s blood pressure is spiking, I want to go home! Open it, enough of this circus.
Circus.
Twenty-five years of circus where I was the juggler, the cleaner, the caretaker, the one who did everything.
— You asked me not to call while I wasn’t well — I replied calmly through the door. — I didn’t. I got better. From everything at once.
— Leni, are you crazy? Fever again? — his voice screeched.
— From “everything”? I’m your wife! I just waited out the dangerous moment, you clever man! I was earning money!
— You ran away, Viti. You took the lemons and ran.
— To hell with the lemons! — he shouted.
— You have no right! This apartment is mine too! I’ll call an emergency service! The fire department! They’ll break down the door!
— Call them — he agreed.
— Then let them break it. The documents for the apartment are with me, you know who the owner is. And your things… I’ll pack them.
— What things?
— Everything. Carefully into boxes. I’ll send them to your mother by courier. If there are any lemons left, they go too.
He shouted something more. Tried to play on pity (“I was thinking of us, silly!”). Then he fell silent.
I heard him kick the door in frustration. Then the sound of heavy, retreating footsteps — a man stripped of his accustomed comfort.
Two keys
I returned to the kitchen. The tea had cooled slightly but was still tasty.
On the hallway table lay the new set of keys. Two shining keys.
One was mine.
I took the other in my hand. Cold, heavy. I slid it into the far drawer of the desk, the deepest corner.
Let it stay there. Maybe someday someone will get it who isn’t afraid to bring me a glass of water. Or maybe it will stay there forever.
In the quiet of the apartment, the cooling kettle clicked. I poured another cup of tea.
Being alone brought peace.
