He dreamed of living a long and happy life with his young wife, and now, at fifty-five, he suffered from a bitter remorse.
— Another coffee? — the waitress asked, tapping her fingernail on the empty cup.
Viktor Nikolaevich jumped. In the dim light of the “Transit” café at the station, everything swayed before his eyes. He had been sitting there for three hours and fourteen minutes.
— What? Ah… yes, please. But no sugar.
The girl chuckled under her breath and took away the cup. The name tag read “Alëna.” Quite young, just like Ksuša ten years ago. Same mocking glances, same habit of licking her lips while listening.
Life seemed frozen. Outside, a cold and persistent October drizzle fell, as relentless as his existence at fifty-five. The drops slid down the window, leaving damp trails, like wrinkles that had covered Viktor Nikolaevich’s face over time.
The phone vibrated again in his hands—already the sixth time in half an hour. It wasn’t Ksuša. Work again. He silently ended the call.
— The bill, please? — Alëna placed a new cup on the table. — My shift ends soon.
— No, I’m waiting…
He stopped, unable to say the word “wife.” Was she still? After those voice messages, his silence, the new social media status with the hashtag #shouldtheman?
— Then wait all you want — the waitress said, walking away to another table.
Viktor opened the chat with Ksuša: the last message was his, sent at 9:08 a.m.:
“See you at the station at 2:00 p.m. We need to talk. I love you.”
No response. Just two blue check marks.
He smiled bitterly. “I love you.” A simple and yet empty phrase. Ten years ago, it sounded like a vow, like the start of eternity. Now it was a sentence.
Next to him, a couple was arguing: a man in his thirties tried to convince a woman in red:
— Don’t you get it? This is my chance! Moscow, career, real money…
— And me? — the girl stirred her spoon. — Should I throw everything away?
Viktor listened involuntarily. At first, he thought others’ quarrels were a comedy; now he realized his life was already a farce.
“Men have the right to happiness too.” He had told those words to Marina ten years ago, while she was putting away her luggage. How foolish they sounded now. Right to happiness, as if it could be bought or found next to a young wife.
The phone vibrated again. A message:
“Sorry, I can’t come. Let’s postpone. Tomorrow I leave for Bali. With the girls. Two weeks.”
Viktor put the phone screen down, massaged his temples. The coffee was cooling, just like the hope that something could change today.
A woman with a five-year-old child in a dinosaur blue jacket approached a bus. The woman laughed despite the rain. That laughter seemed painfully familiar.
He jolted. No, it wasn’t Marina. Just an illusion. Marina’s life must be completely different now. And him? He had a cold coffee and the feeling that his existence was paused, like an old movie no one wanted to watch anymore.
He paid for the coffee and left “Transit.” The rain had become heavier and colder, the frozen drops stinging his face. He turned up the collar of his overcoat—a gift from Ksuša for his birthday—and heard those words echo: “That color suits you. You’re so… distinguished.” Now they sounded mocking.
The sidewalk shone under the streetlights, reflecting a blurry glow. The air was thick with November humidity. Viktor stopped under the shelter of a kiosk, took out a cigarette—he smoked rarely, only when nervous.
— A cigarette? — asked a skinny guy with a backward cap.
Viktor silently lit the stub for him.
— Thanks. Nice coat. “Burberry”?
— “Max Mara.”
— Cool. My wife dreams of one like that. She wants to buy it in installments. I told her: are you crazy? We have a mortgage for twenty years, what coat?
Viktor grimaced. Mortgage. He and Marina had one too—a flat in a new building overlooking the park. They had been paying it for fifteen years, cent by cent. Then he gave up everything.
— Does your wife know brands? — the guy asked, ignoring Viktor’s downcast air.
— My… — he hesitated, searching for the right word. — Yes, she knows.
The phone vibrated in his pocket. Viktor jumped again, like a student caught cheating. Ksuša? No, a banking notification:
“Debit of 58,300 rubles. Air tickets Moscow–Denpasar, business class, Aeroflot.”
His heart clenched. Not “with the girls.” With someone else, probably the one from the posts with the hashtag #shouldtheman. Ksuša had never traveled business class for her friends. “Why pay more? Better champagne at the hotel,” she used to say.
The guy put out the stub, nodded quickly, and disappeared into the darkness. Viktor stared at the screen. Then opened the gallery. He scrolled through the photos in an almost dreamlike state: a trip to Istanbul, dinner on the hotel terrace “Marmara,” a walk on the Bosporus.
Ksuša smiled perfectly, as if coached by professional photographers. Sculpted features, a measured gaze… Only now did he notice her eyes almost always seemed to look elsewhere, beyond him.
The latest photos were from September, at a friend’s dacha in the Istra region. Back then he had been glad to be invited. Usually, friends stayed without their husbands. Now he understood: it was a test. They wanted to see how he would behave among Ksuša’s new friends, ambitious young people in their thirties with their lives ahead.
He couldn’t fit in. He was bored talking about cryptocurrencies, wouldn’t know what to say about a new track by Faїс or Morgenshtern, and didn’t want to discuss “how Rosneft betrayed small shareholders.” In the evenings, he left pretending to have a headache. Ksuša stayed.
He closed the gallery and dialed a number. Rings. Many. On the eighth, the voicemail:
“Hi, it’s me. If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m busy with something interesting. Leave a message and I’ll call back as soon as I can.”
Before it was: “…I’ll call you back as soon as I’m free, darling.” When had she changed it?
— Ksuša, it’s me, — he said hoarsely. — I saw the tickets. I understand everything. No need to pretend. I don’t want to disturb you. Let’s just talk once. As humans.
He hung up. Looked at the clock: 6:47 p.m. The train to Moscow left in twelve minutes. He would make it.
He put the phone back in his pocket and headed to the ticket office. An unexpected calm filled his mind, like before surgery a year ago, when they administered the first anesthetic injection and the world started losing contours.
Back then he had spent almost a month in the hospital. Ksuša had come twice: fruit, magazines, and a kiss on the cheek. And Marina… she would have known exactly what to do. But he hadn’t told the daughters, so not her either. Viktor imagined Marina entering with a container of food from “Fix Price,” books, and simple words. She knew how to turn a hospital room into a home. Many years before, when he had broken his leg during a company event, she had stayed up all night changing his dressings while he burned with fever.
Viktor shook his head. The past cannot be recovered. And is it worth it? Ten years are not few. He had chosen that path.
— One ticket to Moscow, please.
— 340 rubles.
He handed over a 500-ruble note. Just then the phone vibrated again. Viktor pulled it out abruptly.
But it wasn’t Ksuša. The caller was his eldest daughter—Katja. The first time in three years.
Viktor stood still: in one hand the ticket, in the other the phone. That name on the display seemed a ghost from a life long past.
— Hello?
Pause. Then a deep breath.
— Hi, Dad.
An adult voice, a bit hoarse. Not the one from before, when she ran to school jingling keys. Three years ago, he tried to wish her a happy birthday. She hadn’t answered.
— What’s up? — Viktor worried, moving away from the counter.
— Nothing serious… I mean, Mom is in the hospital. Gallbladder problems. They operate tomorrow. Don’t worry.
Gallbladder. Marina had suffered from it for a long time. At “MedSi” they recommended diet and medicine. She nodded, then ate spicy and fatty food anyway: she cooked for everyone but herself. “Then I’ll take a pill,” she said.
— Which hospital?
— The sixty-seventh. You can’t enter now, tomorrow from nine. Just wanted to tell you.
The board blinked: the train to Moscow left in seven minutes.
— Thanks for calling — said Viktor, choking on a lump in his throat — How are you? And Lena?
— Good. Lena got married three months ago. To a programmer from her office. And I… — Katja hesitated again — I’m pregnant. Six months.
Six months. He would become a grandfather. And no one had told him. If not for Marina, he would never have known.
— Congratulations — said Viktor — Boy or girl?
— Girl. We’ll name her Sonja.
Sonja, like the maternal great-grandmother.
The announcement for boarding the train came from the display. Viktor tightened his grip on the wet ticket.
— Katja, I’ll come to the hospital tomorrow morning.
Pause. Then in a low voice:
— Why, Dad?
Those words struck him more than any answer. Why? What was he supposed to say to Marina? “Hi, how are you? I know about the operation”? Or: “Sorry, I was stupid”? Or: “I left the young wife, could you take me back?”
— I want… to be close to you — he stammered — if you need me.
— Il’ja is there, he’s always with her. And me and Lena too. We don’t need your interference.
“We don’t need your interference.” A hard, definitive sentence like a verdict.
— I understand — said Viktor, sitting on a bench — Send me news about the operation, okay?
— Sure. I’ll let you know.
Silence. No one was in a hurry to hang up.
— Dad, how is Ksenija Andreevna? Still beautiful? — Katja asked calmly, as if speaking about a friend.
— I don’t know — he answered honestly — We parted.
Katja paused.
— I understand. It happens.
“Happens.” Ten years of life, ten years of absence, ten years of silence—all in one word.
— Where are you now? — she finally asked.
— At the station, in Mytishchi.
— Mytishchi? Why there? What are you doing?
Viktor looked at the wet ticket. What was he doing there? Waiting for a train that would take him to an empty apartment? Had he run away?
— I don’t know — he admitted quietly — I just ran away.
The train arrived, doors hissed, and the crowd moved forward.
Katja was silent so long Viktor thought the line had dropped. Then she said:
— Lena’s birthday is in a week, the first Sunday of the month. We’re meeting at her place, Baumanskaya. If you want… you can come around five.
The train moved, taking away many lives into the night. Viktor remained seated on the bench, clutching a useless ticket. He had a lump in his throat that wouldn’t dissolve.
