“I’m Not Interested in Women My Own Age — I’ve Still Got It!” Declared My 60-Year-Old Neighbor After Rejecting My Pies. Soon After, He Needed Help
You know, sometimes a sincere act of kindness turns against you in such an absurd way that you don’t even know whether to laugh or cry.
Nikolai Petrovich and I had been neighbors on the same landing for about fifteen years. We had always lived peacefully: we greeted each other, occasionally complained about utility bills, or discussed the latest nonsense from the building management company.
A year ago, he became a widower. He took his wife’s death very hard. He aged almost overnight, turned gray and withdrawn, and walked around looking like a shadow of himself. The whole building felt sorry for him. I tried to support him in a neighborly way: sometimes I brought him a container of borscht, sometimes I simply stopped on the landing and listened when he needed to talk.
But a couple of months ago, Nikolai Petrovich changed as if someone had replaced him. Apparently, some kind of late midlife crisis had hit him — late, but with triple force.
It started when he shaved off his respectable mustache, the one he had probably worn since the last century.
Then his corduroy jackets and worn-out shoes disappeared into the trash chute. In their place came skinny jeans, some neon-colored sneakers, and hoodies with strange English phrases printed on them.
But the clothes were not the worst part.
His behavior changed too. He stopped responding when people called him by his patronymic and insisted that everyone call him simply Nikolai. He bought a huge black SUV on credit, even though it only took him fifteen minutes to get to work by tram. Then he started playing music so loudly that the cups in my kitchen rattled.
That Saturday, I decided to bake. I made pies with cabbage and apples using my grandmother’s old recipe. The smell filled the entire floor — warm, cozy, homemade.
I looked at the big pile of golden pies and thought, “Why not treat the neighbor?” After all, he lived alone. Who else would bake something homemade for him?
So I took a nice plate, chose the fluffiest pies, covered them with a napkin, and rang his doorbell.
Petrovich opened the door.
Or rather — Nikolai opened it.
He was dressed up, smelling so strongly of some sharp cologne that my eyes almost watered. He looked me up and down, then glanced at the plate of pies. His face twisted into such a condescending little smile that I was honestly taken aback.
“Zinaida,” he said in the tone of a tired aristocrat, “you are, of course, a good woman. But let’s be clear from the start. I understand your intentions. I am an attractive, single, financially secure man. But you are wasting your time with these pies and borscht. Women my age don’t interest me. I’ve still got it! I need a muse, young energy, you understand? And I don’t need all those carbs. I’m on a keto diet now.”
I stood there frozen, holding out the plate.
I was fifty-eight years old, happily married — my husband was actually fishing at that very moment — and I had two grandchildren. Flirting with this elderly Romeo had never even crossed my mind.
But apparently, he had decided I was trying to win his heart through his stomach.
“You know what, Nikolai Petrovich,” I said through clenched teeth, feeling my cheeks burn with anger. “Enjoy your keto diet. I’ll give these pies to the stray dogs. At least they’ll be more grateful.”
I turned around, went back into my apartment, and slammed the door.
It hurt terribly. After that, we stopped speaking. Whenever we met near the elevator, I silently turned away.
Meanwhile, Petrovich continued trying to look young. Soon I began noticing young women visiting him. And I mean young — twenty-five at most.
They giggled on the landing, smoked electronic cigarettes that left behind a sickly strawberry smell, and slammed the doors of his car loudly.
My neighbor strutted around like a rooster, although it was obvious that these “young energies” were draining the last strength out of him. Dark circles appeared under his eyes, and his walk became heavier and more shuffling.
The ending to this little comedy came in late November.
The first snow had fallen, and frost had set in. I was coming home from the store one evening with heavy bags. I entered the building and called the elevator. Suddenly, I heard strange sounds from above, from the stairwell between the first and second floors — something between a moan and a whimper.
I climbed the steps and saw a scene worthy of a painting.
There on the landing, twisted into an unnatural position, sat our “I’ve still got it” Nikolai Petrovich. His face was gray and covered in sweat. One hand clutched his lower back, the other gripped the railing.
And next to him stood his latest “muse” — a long-haired blonde in a short jacket, with lips so inflated they barely fit on her face. She stood there, wrinkling her nose in disgust, poking the screen of her phone with a long artificial nail.
“Kolya, what’s wrong with you?” she whined. “We were supposed to go to the club. I booked a table. The girls are waiting. Are you getting up or what?”
“Linochka, sweetheart,” Petrovich rasped, “wait… My back… It shot through me, all the way down my leg. I can’t move. Call an ambulance…”
“What ambulance?” Lina snapped. “I didn’t go to medical school. My taxi is already here, and the waiting fee is running. Come on, manage somehow. Take a pill or something. Call me tomorrow!”
She air-kissed somewhere about a meter away from his cheek, stepped over her groaning admirer, and click-clacked down the stairs in her heels.
The front door slammed.
Petrovich remained sitting on the dirty concrete. He tried to move, but only let out a low groan from the pain.
I stood there for a couple of seconds.
I remembered his smug tone. His words about women his own age. The rejected pies.
Honestly, it would have been fair to walk past him. I could have said, “Well, did your muse help you?”
But we are people of the old school. We don’t know how to do that.
I put down my bags and walked over to him.
“So, Nikolai Petrovich,” I said, “did the keto diet fail you? Or was the young energy too powerful?”
He raised his eyes to me.
There was no arrogance left in them. No self-confidence. Only pain and the despair of a trapped animal.
“Zin… Zinaida Sergeyevna…” he whispered with pale lips. “Help me, for God’s sake. It hurts so badly I can’t breathe.”
I sighed.
I took out my phone and called emergency services. Then I called my husband, who was already home. Together with Sergey, we somehow managed to lift our unfortunate lover, carry him into his apartment, and lay him on the sofa. We waited for the ambulance with him.
The doctors diagnosed acute lumbalgia — in plain words, a severe attack of sciatica, triggered by getting too cold and putting his body through unreasonable physical strain.
The young doctor shook his head while writing prescriptions.
“Well, you really outdid yourself, sir. At your age, showing off in a thin jacket in freezing weather and carrying heavy things? You need warmth, ointments, rest, and some broth.”
They did not take Petrovich to the hospital. They gave him a strong painkilling injection and left him to recover at home.
For three days, he lay almost completely still. None of the Linas, Svetas, or other “muses” called him even once, let alone came to visit.
My husband ran to the pharmacy for his medicine, and I cooked chicken broth and brought it to him three times a day.
On the fourth day, he felt a little better. He was able to sit at the kitchen table by himself. I brought him another bowl of soup. He ate silently, staring down into the plate.
In his stretched-out sweatpants and old sweater, he once again looked like a normal elderly man — not an aging teenager.
“Thank you, Zinaida,” he suddenly said quietly, without raising his head. “To you and Sergey both. If it weren’t for you… I would have been lying there on the concrete.”
“Eat, Nikolai Petrovich,” I replied calmly. “Get better.”
“I’m an old fool,” he said with a bitter smile. “I thought I could buy youth with money. I thought they were looking at me. But they were looking at my car and my wallet. I nearly died there on the stairs, and she didn’t even turn around. Forgive me for what I said that day, Zinaida. And forgive me for the pies. I was a fool.”
I didn’t answer. I simply took the empty bowl and left.
Now Petrovich walks with a cane — his back never fully recovered. He sold his fancy car, saying it was too hard to climb into it.
He started wearing warm jackets again and greets everyone properly, using names and patronymics. His illusions shattered against the harsh reality of sciatica on a cold stairwell.
And sometimes I still wonder: did I do the right thing by helping him that evening?
After all, he had insulted me. He had trampled on my sincere kindness. Many of my friends, when I tell them this story, tap their fingers against their temples and say:
“Zina, have you no pride? You should have stepped over him and walked past. Let those young girls of his save him!”
But I can’t do that.
Still, I won’t lie — the bitterness remained.
What would you have done in my place? Would you have walked past someone who had so rudely spat on your kindness? Or would you also have rushed to help, putting your hurt feelings aside?
