Sunday morning hadn’t promised much beyond the grim task of scrubbing a baking sheet after last night’s chicken. Alina—a forty-eight-year-old woman with a backbone made of tempered steel from years of battling public utilities—stood at the sink. The roar of the water drowned out her thoughts on the eternal: specifically, why dish soap had gone up another thirty cents while lathering like it had been diluted with the tears of public sector workers.
Vitalik drifted into the kitchen, his slippers shuff-shuffing across the floor. He looked tragic, like a disgraced nobleman being told the champagne had run out. He sat at the table, pushed the sugar bowl aside, and let out a heavy sigh while staring out the window. The gray November landscape outside perfectly matched his internal state.
«Alina,» he began, his voice heavy with the weight of the world. «We need to talk. I can’t go on like this. I’m suffocating.»
Alina turned off the tap. Suffocating, is he? she thought, wiping her hands on a waffle-weave towel. Of course he is. If you finish off a pound of roast pork by yourself, your diaphragm is going to protest. I told him: don’t eat heavy grease right before bed.
«What do you mean ‘suffocating,’ Vitalik?» she asked out loud, sitting down across from him. «Should I open a window? Or is it just heartburn again?»
«You make everything so mundane!» Vitalik threw his hands up theatrically. «I’m talking about the soul, the cosmos, our relationship! The spark is gone, don’t you see? We’ve become strangers, like roommates in a boarding house. I feel my creative potential withering away in this… this routine!»
Alina narrowed her eyes. Vitalik’s «creative potential» consisted of reinstalling Windows for a neighbor once every six months in exchange for a bottle of cognac and writing angry internet comments about geopolitics. The rest of the time, he worked as a sales manager for vinyl windows—though sales were sluggish because, in Vitalik’s view, people these days were too poor to recognize a good deal.
«Cut to the chase, Vitalik,» Alina prompted. «Are you leaving or what?»
«I am leaving!» he announced solemnly. «I’ve met a woman. She’s different. She actually hears me. She is—if you must know—my muse!»
«Well, a muse is a muse,» Alina nodded calmly. Nothing inside her twinged or broke. On the contrary, she felt a strange sense of relief, like taking off tight shoes after a long wedding reception. «Are you packing your bags now, or is the muse sending movers?»
Vitalik blinked, stunned. He had expected tears, smashed plates, and cries of «How could you leave me?!» He had prepared a speech about how «we’ll stay friends» and «it’s not you, it’s me.» Instead, he got a dry, business-like inquiry.
«You aren’t even upset?» he asked, sounding offended.
«Vitalik, I’m pushing fifty. I only get upset when the utility rates go up or when they stop carrying my favorite cheese. You’re a big boy. You’ve made your choice—now go. The suitcase is on the top shelf of the closet; get it yourself, my back is acting up.»
The next two hours were a whirlwind of activity. Vitalik darted around the apartment, rounding up his belongings. Alina sat in her armchair with a crossword puzzle, though she kept a sharp eye on his trajectory.
«I’m taking the laptop; I need it for work!» he declared, clutching an old Asus to his chest.
«Take it,» Alina waved him off magnanimously. «It runs hot as a griddle and doesn’t hold a charge anyway.»
«And the coffee maker!» Vitalik was on a roll now. «I’m not human without coffee in the morning.»
«The coffee maker?» Alina arched an eyebrow. «Vitalik, we bought that with my bonus when you were out of work for three months, remember? But fine, take it. Let your muse make you cappuccinos. Just don’t forget the filters; they’re in the top drawer. I know you ‘creative’ types—you’ll end up straining it through a handkerchief otherwise.»
Vitalik puffed and panted as he stuffed sweaters and jeans into his suitcase. He tried to grab the toolset too, but that’s where Alina stood her ground.
«Put the drill back.»
«Why? I’m the one who put up the shelves!»
«You put them up, but I paid for the drill. And for the record, the shelves are crooked; I’ll have to redo them anyway. The tools stay with the family. Meaning, with me.»
Once the bags were packed, a sweaty, disheveled Vitalik looked around the apartment one last time. He clearly wanted to say something epic for his grand exit, but the only thing that came to mind was «thanks for the soup,» which felt a bit small for the occasion.
«Well, I’m off,» he muttered. «I won’t call a cab; they’re too expensive. I’ll take the car. I have too much stuff to carry.»
Alina, who was peacefully finishing a lukewarm cup of tea, choked.
«The car? I’m sorry, which car?»
«Our car! The Toyota. What’s the big deal? I have to haul all this across town to Lena’s—I mean, to my new place. You have the subway right next door. Besides, why does a woman need a crossover? You never could judge the clearance anyway.»
With a confident motion, Vitalik grabbed the keys to the silver RAV4 from the hook. He could already see it: free, proud, behind the wheel of a foreign car, speeding toward a new life where he was appreciated, loved, and never asked to take out the trash.
Alina slowly set her cup on the table. The clink of porcelain in the silence sounded like a gong before a title fight. She stood up, straightened her bathrobe, and stepped right up to her former flame.
«Vitalik, honey,» she began sweetly, but her eyes were so cold that a shiver ran down his spine. «Let’s do a quick chronological review. What year did we get married?»
«2018,» he answered uncertainly. «Why?»
«2018, correct. In November. And when did I buy the car?»
Vitalik furrowed his brow. He was bad with dates, but he remembered how proudly he had sat in the passenger seat when they drove it off the lot.
«Well… also in the fall.»
«August, Vitalik. August of 2018. Three months before we went to the courthouse to get those little blue stamps in our passports. And the loan, I should remind you, was paid off using the money from the sale of my grandmother’s cottage—all while you were ‘finding yourself’ in multi-level marketing, trying to sell miracle supplements made of dried grasshoppers.»
«But we’re a family!» Vitalik protested, his voice rising. «I’m the one who drove it! I’m the one who changed the oil!»
«You changed the oil with my money, and you drove it because I was being nice. Keyword: was. Past tense. Up until this very second.»
«Alina, this is petty!» he shrieked, realizing the ground—or rather, the wheels—was being pulled out from under him. «You’re really going to leave a man without a way to get around? Standing on the curb with his suitcases?»
«I’m restoring the balance of justice,» she cut him off. «A divorce is a divorce. We’ll split the assets by the book. Everything we earned through ‘back-breaking labor’ during the marriage is right there in your suitcase: your shirts, the coffee maker, and that BBQ set we never even opened. But the car, my dear, is pre-marital property.»
She held out her hand, palm up. The gesture was imperial, final, and brook no argument.
«Keys.»
Vitalik hesitated. In his mind, the beautiful image of his arrival at his new flame’s place was crumbling. It was one thing to roll up in a shiny crossover, toss the keys onto the entryway table, and say, «I’ve moved the essentials.» It was a completely different story to tumble out of a budget Uber with plaid laundry bags like a refugee, whining about how his ex-wife was a bitch.
«Alina, come on, just let me use it to move my stuff! I’ll bring it back tomorrow. I swear!»
«I know your ‘I swears,'» Alina smirked. «Tomorrow you’ll hang a shelf, tomorrow you’ll find a job. No thanks. This ship has sailed. Hand them over.»
Vitalik, turning a shade of red usually reserved for overripe tomatoes, slammed the keys down on the foyer table.
«Fine! Choke on your piece of junk!» he yelled. «I always knew you were materialistic! You care more about things than people!»
«Not ‘things,’ Vitalik—assets,» she corrected him in a clinical, mentoring tone. «And it’s not that they’re worth more than people; they’re just more reliable. This car has never betrayed me, it’s never whined about a creative crisis, and it’s never left me for another driver because their gas tasted better.»
He grabbed his suitcases and stumbled toward the door. One of the suitcase wheels gave a pathetic squeak and snapped off. Vitalik cursed, tucked the heavy bag under his arm, and lurched out into the hallway.
«And don’t you dare show your face here again!» he shouted from the elevator, despite the total lack of logic in that statement.
Alina turned the deadbolt twice. The lock clicked. Silence descended upon the apartment. A blissful, thick, heavy silence.
She walked over to the window. Down below, by the entrance, Vitalik was trying to hail a ride. Judging by his frantic gesturing, the surge pricing was astronomical and the wait time was an eternity. He kicked his suitcase, pulled out his phone, and presumably started calling his muse to complain about how cruel the world was.
Alina picked up the car keys and turned them over in her hand. The pleasant weight of the key fob warmed her palm.
Needs a car wash, she thought. And I need to change that air freshener. The whole interior smells like his cologne.
She threw on a jacket, laced up some comfortable sneakers, and headed out. The wind was biting but fresh. Vitalik was already gone—likely whisked away in a beat-up economy sedan.
Alina climbed into her RAV4. The seat was pushed way back to accommodate her husband’s long legs. With a practiced motion, she slid the seat forward and adjusted the rearview mirror. A woman looked back at her from the reflection: not young, but well-kept, with an ironic glint in her eyes and a calm smile. A woman who knows exactly how much a pound of beef costs, how to pay taxes through an app, and exactly why you don’t title property in the name of a husband who is still «finding himself.»
She turned the ignition. The engine responded with a smooth, satisfied purr.
«Alright, sweetheart,» Alina said aloud, patting the steering wheel. «Let’s go get some cake. I think I’ve earned a slice of Napoleon today. And some champagne. And maybe some new seat covers.»
She switched on the radio. A catchy song was playing about how «everything is going to be alright.» Alina flipped on her turn signal and smoothly pulled out of the driveway.
Ahead of her was a free evening. A free life. And a full tank of gas that—unlike certain men—always takes you exactly where you need to go.
