“Natasha, did he seriously not pay for himself again?”
Lenka stood by the checkout, shaking her head. Natasha was holding a receipt for three thousand rubles. Groceries for a week. For two people, even though she lived alone.
“He forgot his wallet at home,” Natasha said, pulling out her credit card. The credit card again.
“The third time this week? Your Vitya has got himself a pretty comfortable arrangement.”
“Don’t start. He’s going through a difficult period. He’s looking for a job.”
“He’s been looking for six months. But somehow he still wants to eat every day.”
Natasha said nothing. She paid and dragged the heavy bags toward the exit. Viktor was waiting outside. Handsome as a picture. Dark hair, slightly longer than was customary. Brown, dreamy eyes. A smile that made everything inside her turn upside down. “Did you buy meat?” he asked instead of saying thank you.
“Yes. And your favorite cheese.”
“Great. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
He headed toward the bus stop without even offering to help with the bags. Natasha trudged after him. On the minibus, he took the window seat while she sat beside him, holding the grocery bags between her knees.
At home, while she cooked dinner, Viktor lay on the couch. He watched something on his phone, chuckling occasionally.
“You didn’t forget the sour cream, did you? We need sour cream with the meat.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“And make a salad. The one with tomatoes.”
“I will.”
Natasha chopped vegetables and wondered: when had everything become like this?
It seemed like only recently he had been different. He used to invite her to the movies and give her flowers.
Once, anyway.
On their first date.
And then, somehow without her noticing, he had turned into… what?
A freeloader?
No, she didn’t think of him that way.
He loved her, after all.
Probably.
For her birthday, Natasha hoped for a surprise. Twenty-five wasn’t a major milestone, but still. Maybe a restaurant? Or at least a café?
Viktor arrived carrying a bouquet.
Three roses, already beginning to wilt.
“Happy birthday,” he said, thrusting the flowers at her.
“Thank you. Are we… going anywhere?”
“Where? I don’t have any money. You know that.”
“Maybe we could just go for a walk?”
“It’s cold. Let’s stay home. You can cook something tasty.”
Natasha cooked “something tasty.”
Salads, a hot main course, and she even bought a cake.
For herself.
At the table, Viktor ate in silence. Then he said,
“You’re a good cook. You’ll make an excellent wife.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
Was that a hint?
A proposal?
“For someone,” he added. “Someday.”
For New Year’s, Natasha saved money for two months.
She denied herself everything.
Lunch at work consisted of tea and cookies.
New tights? She could buy them later.
Public transportation? She could walk instead.
She bought him a watch. A beautiful men’s watch with a black case. At the pawnshop, they told her it was a good brand and worth the money.
Viktor unwrapped the present and whistled.
“Wow! Must have been expensive?”
“Not really,” Natasha lied.
“Cool. Thanks.”
He put it on, turning his wrist and admiring it.
Then he asked,
“What’s for dinner?”
She waited for a gift in return.
Anything.
A card, a chocolate bar, some little trinket.
Nothing.
“Vitya, did you get me…”
“What? Oh, a present? Natasha, I’m unemployed. You understand that.”
She understood.
She always understood.
In February, Natasha got sick.
Her temperature was nearly forty degrees Celsius. She had a cough and felt terribly weak.
She called Viktor.
“Could you bring me some medicine, please? I’ll send you the list.”
“I can’t. I already made plans to meet the guys.”
“Vitya, I feel really awful.”
“Well, take something. Aspirin or whatever. Drink tea with raspberry jam.”
“I don’t have anything at home.”
“That’s too bad. All right, we’ll talk later.”
Lenka brought the medicine.
She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Natasha reproachfully.
“Where’s your prince?”
“Busy,” Natasha croaked.
“Busy. Of course. Natasha, how much longer are you going to put up with this?”
“With what?”
“This! He’s using you!”
“He loves me.”
“Loves you? Where is he right now? Why isn’t he here?”
Natasha turned toward the wall.
She didn’t want to hear the truth.
The incident in the village was the final straw.
Natasha had gone to visit her aunt to help around the house. On the way back, the bus broke down halfway through the journey. Everyone was dropped off in some small village.
“The next bus is tomorrow morning,” the driver said.
It was March. Cold. It got dark early.
Natasha stood by the roadside, not knowing what to do. She couldn’t get a taxi—drivers didn’t come out there. The city was about forty kilometers away.
She called Viktor.
“Vitya, I’m stranded. The bus broke down. Please come get me.”
“Where are you?”
She told him the name of the village.
“That’s far away! An hour there and an hour back.”
“Vitya, I don’t have anyone else to call.”
“Can’t you spend the night there?”
“Where? On the street?”
“I don’t know. Ask at a shop or something. You’ll come back in the morning.”
“Viktor, please!”
“Natasha, I can’t. Formula One is on TV. I bought beer and got comfortable. I don’t feel like going anywhere.”
“But I…”
“What? You’re a big girl. You’ll manage. Okay, bye. The race is starting.”
The line went dead.
Natasha stood there with the phone in her hand, unable to believe it.
Formula One.
Beer.
I don’t feel like going anywhere.
And she was standing by the side of the road, in the dark.
Alone.
She called Lenka.
“Girl, help me out. I’m stuck in a village.”
“Where?! I’ll send Sergei right now!”
An hour later, Lenka’s husband arrived.
Without saying much, he helped Natasha into the car and turned on the heater.
“Cold?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your boyfriend?”
“At home.”
“I see.”
They drove in silence.
Natasha stared out the window and thought.
She remembered.
How Viktor had never once met her after work.
How he never helped carry the grocery bags.
How he hadn’t come when she was sick.
How he had given her three half-dead roses for her birthday.
And what about her?
She cooked for him.
Washed his clothes.
Cleaned.
Took out loans so she could feed him.
Bought him gifts.
For what?
For his handsome face?
For his smile?
Because he occasionally spent the night?
“We’re here,” Sergei said.
“Thank you. How much do I owe you for gas?”
“Forget it. You’re Lenka’s friend.”
At home, Natasha sat down in the kitchen.
She took out her phone and stared at the name “Vitya” in her contacts.
Then she deleted it.
The next morning, he called from another number.
“Natasha, did you change your number? I can’t get through.”
“No. I deleted yours.”
“Why?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
“I’m tired of it.”
“Tired of what?”
“Everything. You. The way you use me. Your indifference.”
“What are you talking about? I’ll come over tonight and we’ll talk. We can have dinner too. Buy some meat. I want shashlik.”
Natasha actually laughed.
Unbelievable.
He wanted shashlik.
“Vitya, go to hell.”
“What?!”
“Go to hell. Buy your own shashlik. Cook it yourself. And eat it yourself.”
“Natasha, what’s wrong with you? We…”
“We what? Love each other? No, Vitya. You only love yourself. And I was in love with a pretty picture. A picture you never really were.”
“You…”
She hung up.
Then blocked the number.
Afterward, she sat there and cried.
From hurt.
From anger at herself.
So much time wasted.
So much money.
So many hopes.
Lenka came over—she had a spare key.
“Well? Finally come to your senses?”
“Finally.”
“And how does it feel?”
“Painful. And embarrassing. How could I have been such an idiot?”
“We’re all idiots when we’re in love. The important thing is to open your eyes before it’s too late.”
Six months passed.
Natasha paid off her credit card debt. It turned out there hadn’t been that much debt after all.
Without Viktor and his appetite, she actually had enough money.
She bought herself a new dress.
Went to the movies with Lenka.
Signed up for classes—she had wanted to improve her English for a long time.
Viktor tried to come back.
He wrote to her from different numbers and waited for her outside the store. He promised to change, promised to find a job, even promised to marry her.
Natasha looked at him and wondered: had she really loved this man?
Handsome, yes.
But empty.
Like a Christmas ornament—shiny on the outside, hollow inside.
“Give me another chance,” he begged.
“No.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m giving myself a chance. A chance at a normal life. Without you.”
He left.
He never came back.
And Natasha lived her life.
She worked, met up with friends, read books.
Sometimes she remembered the whole story and thought: it had been an expensive lesson.
But a useful one.
Love does not mean tolerating humiliation.
It does not mean supporting a freeloader.
It does not mean waiting for crumbs of attention.
Love means reciprocity.
Care.
Respect.
Viktor had none of those things.
And thank God she finally realized it.
Even if she paid dearly for the lesson.
Some lessons simply can’t be learned any other way.