After dropping off his mistress, Buchin gently said goodbye and headed home. He stood for a moment at the entrance, mentally rehearsing everything he was about to say to his wife. Then he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
“Hi,” said Buchin. “Vera, are you home?”
“I’m home,” his wife replied flatly. “Hi. So, should I go start frying the scallops?”
Buchin had promised himself he’d be direct—confident, firm, like a man. End the double life while his lover’s kisses were still warm on his lips, before the pull of domestic routine drowned him again.
“Vera,” he cleared his throat. “I came to tell you… that we need to separate.”
Vera took the news more than calmly. It had always been difficult to shake her. Back in the day, Buchin had even nicknamed her “Vera the Cold One.”
“What do you mean?” Vera asked from the kitchen doorway. “Should I not fry the scallops?”
“Up to you,” said Buchin. “Fry them if you want. If not, don’t. I’m leaving for another woman.”
Most wives would fly at their husbands with a frying pan or start a screaming match. But Vera wasn’t most wives.
“Well, la-di-da,” she said. “Did you pick up my boots from the repair shop?”
“No,” Buchin stammered. “If it’s that important—I’ll go right now and get them!”
“Oh, please,” Vera muttered. “You’re exactly like that. Send a fool to pick up boots, he’ll come back with the old pair.”
Buchin felt hurt. The whole breakup conversation wasn’t going the way he’d imagined. No drama, no emotion, no angry outbursts. But what could he expect from his stone-faced wife, nicknamed Vera the Cold One?
“Vera, I don’t think you’re hearing me,” he said. “I’m officially telling you I’m leaving you for another woman. I’m walking out of this marriage, and you’re talking about boots!”
“Exactly,” Vera said. “Unlike me, you can walk wherever you want. Your boots aren’t in the shop. Why not go?”
They’d lived together for a long time, but Buchin still couldn’t tell when his wife was being sarcastic or serious. He’d fallen for her back then because of her calm nature, her dislike of conflict, and her quiet presence. Plus, he had to admit, her domestic skills and her firm, pleasant figure had played a role.
Vera was reliable, loyal, and cold-blooded—like a thirty-ton ship’s anchor. But now, Buchin was in love with someone else. He loved her passionately, sinfully, sweetly. It was time to put a final period on his old life and reel himself into a new one.
“So, Vera,” said Buchin with a note of solemnity, sorrow, and regret. “I’m grateful to you for everything, but I’m leaving because I love another woman. I don’t love you anymore.”
“Well, that’s rich,” said Vera. “Doesn’t love me—what a joke. My mom loved the neighbor. My dad loved vodka and dominoes. So what? Look how wonderfully I turned out.”
Buchin knew it was pointless to argue with Vera. Every word she spoke landed like a hammer. His earlier determination vanished. He no longer wanted a fight.
“Verunya, you really are wonderful,” he said glumly. “But I love someone else. I love her deeply, sinfully, and sweetly. And I plan to go to her, do you understand?”
“Who is it?” she asked. “Natasha Krapivina, maybe?”
Buchin flinched. He had indeed had a secret affair with Krapivina a year ago, but he had no idea Vera even knew her.
“How do you know her?” he began, then stopped himself. “Actually, never mind. No, Vera, it’s not Krapivina.”
Vera yawned.
“Then maybe it’s Svetlana Burbulskaya? Headed her way?”
A chill ran down Buchin’s spine. Burbulskaya had also been one of his flings, though that was in the past. If Vera knew—why hadn’t she said anything? Oh right, she was a wall of stone. Impossible to get a word out of.
“Wrong again,” said Buchin. “Not Burbulskaya, not Krapivina. This is someone else. An amazing woman, the pinnacle of my dreams. I can’t live without her. I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me.”
“So it must be Maika,” Vera said. “Oh, Buchin, Buchin… cracked piece of driftwood, that’s what you are. Some secret. The pinnacle of your dreams is Maya Valentinovna Gusyaeva. Thirty-five, one kid, two abortions, right?”
Buchin grabbed his head. A direct hit. He was indeed having an affair with Maya Gusyaeva.
“But how?” he stammered. “Who told you? Were you spying on me?”
“Elementary, Buchin,” said Vera. “Dear man, I’m a seasoned gynecologist. I’ve examined every woman in this godforsaken town, while you’ve only sampled a small portion. All I have to do is look where it matters, and I can tell if you’ve been there, you ridiculous beanpole.”
Buchin pulled himself together.
“Let’s say you’re right!” he said defiantly. “Let’s say it is Gusyaeva. That doesn’t change anything—I’m still leaving.”
“You fool, Buchin,” Vera said. “You could’ve at least asked me what I thought of her. And by the way, there’s nothing exceptional about Gusyaeva. She’s just like every other woman—I say that as a doctor. Have you even seen your dream girl’s medical history?”
“N-no…” Buchin admitted.
“Exactly,” Vera said. “First, go take a shower. Second, tomorrow I’ll call Semyonych and get you an appointment at the clinic—no waiting. Then we’ll talk. It’s a disgrace—a gynecologist’s husband can’t even pick a healthy woman!”
“What should I do?” Buchin whimpered.
“I’m going to fry scallops,” Vera said. “You take a shower and do whatever you want. If you want a dream woman without any issues—come to me, I’ll recommend one.”