Are you mocking me, Oleg?” I clutched the edge of the kitchen counter convulsively.
My left knee instantly answered with a sharp, throbbing stab of pain, forcing me to shift my weight onto my good leg.
Outside the window, gleaming with a glossy black side under the streetlamp, stood a giant SUV.
“Kira, come on, let’s think in terms of profit,” Oleg said carelessly, tossing a heavy key fob in his palm.
His face glowed with that smug expression people get when they think they’ve pulled off a brilliant deal.
“Our old car was losing value every month. It was nothing but a loss.”
I stared at my husband, trying to grasp the full scale of this madness.
For two years, we had meticulously saved money for my paid knee replacement surgery.
For the sake of that amount, I had given up a proper vacation, saved on clothes, and chosen groceries based on discounts.
Every step was so difficult for me, as if broken glass had been poured beneath my skin.
And today my husband had simply transferred all our savings to a car dealership to buy a new jeep.
“My surgery cost exactly half as much as that glossy monster!” I breathed out, pointing at the window with a trembling hand.
“Exactly, darling!” Oleg chimed in happily, sincerely convinced he was right.
“We saved the capital from inflation, and with the remaining amount I even added the options I wanted.”
He opened the refrigerator door like the master of the house and pulled out a bottle of cold soda.
“Now we have a reliable asset, you see?
A status symbol that will last a decade and emphasize my standing at work.”
“I can barely walk, Oleg. I’ve been living on painkillers for three months.”
“Well, we’ll wait for a state-funded slot through the insurance,” he shrugged lightly, taking a big swig from the bottle.
“People stand in free queues for years. Nobody’s died from that yet.”
He truly did not understand how monstrous his reasoning was.
For years I had found endless excuses for his constant stinginess toward my needs.
I convinced myself that his greed was simply a form of male practicality.
But now, looking at his relaxed posture, I saw nothing but an empty selfish shell.
Oleg spent the rest of the evening by the living room window, admiring his purchase.
The black body of the car predatory reflected the light from the neighboring windows, and the huge chrome rims were blinding.
I limped slowly around the apartment, picking up the things he had scattered.
Every awkward movement sent a fresh flash of pain through my ruined joint.
“Look at that grille!” he shouted from the room, without taking his delighted eyes off the glass.
“Aggressive, powerful — everyone on the road will move aside!”
I stopped in the hallway and glanced at my reflection in the mirrored wardrobe.
Slumped shoulders, a lifeless gaze, deep shadows under my eyes from constant lack of sleep.
And at that moment my husband was sincerely admiring an aggressive radiator grille.
“Do you even care that I’m physically suffering?” I asked in an even voice, stopping in the doorway.
Oleg rolled his eyes irritably, his whole face showing the utmost exhaustion.
“Here we go again with these female dramas over nothing.”
He turned toward me, folding his arms across his chest in a defensive pose.
“I explained it to you in plain Russian: this is a smart investment in our shared future.
Tomorrow I’ll buy you a good ointment at the pharmacy. Rub it on for a couple of days and it’ll pass.”
“And I also decided not to get insurance,” he added proudly, returning to the view of the courtyard.
“That’s just throwing money away for experienced drivers like me.”
Those words echoed in my head, falling into a clear and perfect pattern.
That night, long-awaited sleep never came.
My leg ached without pause, a dull pain rhythmically pounding in my temples, keeping me from slipping into oblivion.
I carefully lowered my legs from the bed and quietly walked to the bedroom window.
The SUV stood proudly in the courtyard, brazenly occupying two parking spaces at once.
An enormous chunk of expensive metal that had devoured my health and my normal life.
I looked at the polished hood, and in my mind a crystal-clear picture took shape.
He had valued my ability to walk at the price of leather seats and chrome wheels.
There were no hidden meanings or complicated psychology in what he had done.
Just dry calculation in which my health had turned out to be an unprofitable expense.
I turned away from the window and glanced at my sleeping husband.
His face was completely peaceful; he was snoring softly, enjoying his rest.
A plan formed immediately, flaring in my mind in bright neon outlines.
I pulled an old tracksuit on right over my thin cotton pajamas.
In the hallway, the car keys on the little table gave a dull glint — Oleg, in his euphoria, had forgotten to put them back in his pocket.
I slipped the fob into the pocket of my hoodie and opened the door of the roomy storage closet.
On the bottom shelf were five one-kilogram bags of sugar left over from summer.
Next to them stood an untouched can of bright acrylic paint, bought for restoring an old dresser.
I packed all that wealth into a sturdy wheeled shopping bag.
Going down in the elevator with that load was easy, and slipping quietly out of the building was no trouble at all.
A strange, thrilling sense of excitement amazingly pushed the usual pain into the background.
I walked up to the glossy black car, which still smelled of fresh rubber.
At that very moment, I firmly decided to show him the full depth of my devotion and care.
The key clicked softly in the lock, unlocking the fuel cap.
The sugar was meant for the very heart of that expensive status toy.
White crystals streamed into its dark interior in a thick, unbroken flow.
The first empty bag went into the trash, then the second quickly followed, then the third.
I vividly imagined how that sweet mass would turn into thick sticky caramel.
It would glue the pistons and valves of his precious investment permanently shut the moment he started it.
It would turn his reliable asset into a completely useless chunk of dead metal.
When I finished with the carbohydrates, I tightly closed the cap and took out the paint can.
The color turned out to be absolutely fantastic — incredibly juicy and provocatively pink.
I dipped a wide construction brush into it and, with undisguised pleasure, drew the first line.
The paint went on thick, instantly covering the pompous factory shine of the hood.
On the right passenger door I carefully painted a huge crooked heart.
On the left driver’s door I wrote, in large sweeping letters, “TO MY BELOVED.”
Across the windshield, diagonally, I painted the bold word “RATIONALITY.”
I finished the job, threw the dirty brush into the bag, and stepped back a few paces.
The black aggressive predator had turned into a ridiculous surreal installation in the middle of the gray courtyard.
Back in the apartment, I methodically washed my hands, changed clothes, and lay down in the cool bed.
In the morning I was awakened by a wild scream from outside, cracking into a hysterical falsetto.
Oleg was darting around his mangled car, clutching his head and desperately kicking the wheels.
I slowly put on my house robe, made myself some chamomile tea, and stepped out onto the balcony.
“Kira!” he shrieked when he saw me on the third floor.
“Call the police immediately! Some lunatic vandals have been here!”
He ran closer to our balcony, waving his arms nervously.
“They completely destroyed the engine!
I tried to start it, and there was this horrible grinding noise, black smoke poured out!”
I leaned my elbows on the cool railing, studying the picturesque scene with interest.
“Why involve the police, darling?” I asked loudly and clearly.
“This is just my sincere gratitude for your care for the family.”
Oleg froze mid-step, staring up at me with a stunned, utterly uncomprehending look.
“What the hell are you even talking about?”
“You were the one who told me to think exclusively in terms of financial benefit,” I said, smiling pleasantly at him.
I took a small sip of the warm infusion from my mug.
“I realized that such a luxurious car requires a special, individual approach.
Sugar will give plenty of energy to the powerful engine, and bright paint will reliably protect it from envious people.”
His face broke out in blotchy red patches, and his lips began to tremble.
“Have you completely lost your mind?!
It’s totaled — the engine has to be replaced entirely at an official service center!
The repair will cost half the price of this damned car, and I don’t even have insurance!”
“Exactly!” I replied, clearly enjoying myself as I copied his cheerful tone from yesterday.
“And we’ll just wait for the repair under some free quota in somebody’s garage.
People tolerate inconvenience for years — nobody’s ever died from not having a jeep, right?”
I turned smoothly and went back into the kitchen, leaving the balcony door wide open.
Oleg burst into the apartment ten minutes later, breathing heavily and shaking his clenched fists.
“I’m filing for divorce today!
You’ll be paying me back for this colossal damage for the rest of your pathetic life!”
“File it in an hour if you want,” I said calmly, sitting down on a soft chair and carefully stretching out my bad leg.
“But this apartment was left to me by my grandmother before I ever met you.”
I looked straight into his face, twisted with helpless rage.
“And that huge consumer loan for this pink masterpiece in the yard — you signed it personally on your own yesterday.”
He opened his mouth sharply to spit out another insult, but the words stuck in his throat.
His vaunted iron logic and phenomenal practicality had suddenly turned against him.
“You don’t need to pack your things. I’ve already called a moving crew,” I added.
“The most rational thing would be for you to vacate my living space by noon.”
I still limped just as badly, and every movement still echoed with pain.
But suddenly it became unbelievably easy and free to breathe in my own apartment.
