These old men again! — hissed the couple on the balcony. They didn’t yet know that, due to their impudence, they would spend the rest of their vacation outside the hotel doors…
I want to share a story that happened to Mykola and I this summer during our vacation. It proves once again: don’t dig a grave for others, or you’ll fall into it yourself. Especially when you do it in front of a silent but very attentive woman.
Imagine: Mykola and I hadn’t seen the sea for, I think, seven years. Each time, something would pop up that prevented it—the grandchildren would get sick, the farm work would exhaust me to the last breath, or my husband’s blood pressure would kick in again. On the eve of vacation, my back ached from weeding the flowerbeds, and I could only dream: “Oh my God, I could get to see the sea.” Anyone who grows vegetables will understand. But this year, our children surprised us: they gave us a package to a Turkish hotel for our wedding anniversary.
Happiness knew no bounds! They assigned us a room with a sea view, and we couldn’t stop admiring it. We don’t need much: a cup of tea on the balcony, a beloved book, peace and quiet, and the sunset. Silence, tranquility—that’s our retired happiness, hard-won through years of work, vegetable gardens, and sleepless nights.
But, as always, even honey contains a hint of tar. And in our case, it had settled in the next room.
From day one, it was clear: we hadn’t had any luck with our neighbors. A young couple lived in the next room—he was in his thirties, tattoos and muscles all over; she was very thin, with fake lips and her phone always in her hand.
They spent their days taking photos on the balcony, and between shots, they turned up the music so loud that the booming bass gave me a headache. Boom-boom-boom—it felt like my temples were exploding. I wanted to put earplugs in.
Of course, at first I tried not to pay attention. Young people, what can you do? But their insolence grew every day. They started commenting on us loudly right from the balcony.
—Oh, look at those pensioners with their tea again!—she hissed.
—Look: Grandpa’s got a newspaper in his hand! He’s really reading a newspaper in the twenty-first century!—he laughed.
And they weren’t limited to the balcony: they gave us no respite in the restaurant, too. Mykola and I would sit in a corner, order boiled chicken and vegetables, and chat quietly.
They would burst in like a storm: laughter, clattering dishes. They would pile mountains of fried potatoes and greasy meat onto our plates, all smothered in mayonnaise. And, of course, they would sit right next to us.
“Stas, look, they’re eating boiled chicken! Like in the hospital!” she shouted to the entire room, digging into her plate of shrimp.
And he, chewing with a clunk:
“It’s a diet, baby! This way they’ll live to be a hundred and still be a pain in the ass for their grandchildren!”
Mykola turned purple with rage, his fork shaking in his hand.
“Gala, I’m going to them now! I can’t stand them anymore!” he blurted out furiously.
And I tried to calm him down:
“Mykola, it’s not worth it. Better to keep your nerves. Leave them alone, it’ll be their responsibility…”
And I myself didn’t realize how wrong I was.
But the final straw was a completely different episode. I had gone out onto the balcony to photograph a beautiful hibiscus flower with my old phone. And suddenly I heard that unpleasant laugh.
“Stas, look! Grandma’s taking a photo of her still life for social media!” He’ll probably write: “Have a nice day, everyone!” — the arrogant man hissed.
My hands were shaking, the phone was about to drop. Not from old age, but from anger. They weren’t mocking the flower, not the photo: they were mocking my life. My small pleasures, hard-won between the garden, the preserves, and my husband’s illnesses.
And it was then that the calm and patient Gala disappeared. Something inside me snapped, giving way to another woman: angry, determined, and alert. And also very experienced. I didn’t yell, I didn’t curse. I simply…
For the rest, read the comment 👇👇
