Part 1. The Smell of Bitumen and Broken Hopes
The office was stifling. The ventilation system in the administration building, where the social welfare department was located, coped with the July heat about as “efficiently” as most applicants coped with paperwork — not at all. Nadya, a subsidies officer, was explaining for what felt like the hundredth time that day to an overweight man in a greasy cap why his income certificate did not qualify as a proper 2-NDFL document.
“You’re not listening to me,” she said wearily, rubbing her temple. “The stamp has to be an official seal, not some cheap rubber stamp from a kiosk.”
By the time Nadya returned home, she felt squeezed dry, like a lemon in a teacup. All she wanted was silence, a cool shower, and a large glass of tomato juice. The apartment she had inherited from her parents was her fortress. High ceilings from the Stalin-era building, thick walls that blocked out the city noise, and that special scent of old parquet and books that gave her a sense of safety. Her parents, having generously given the place to “the young couple,” were now enjoying their retirement at the dacha, growing hydrangeas, while Nadya remained the mistress of these one hundred square meters in the city center.
Pavel was already home. As usual, he smelled of roofing felt heated by the sun and a gas burner — the smell of a soft-roofing worker. Harsh, sharp, clinging. But to Nadya, it had once become familiar, almost dear. He was sitting on the sofa with his feet on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone.
“Hi, Pash,” Nadya said, kicking off her shoes and feeling her feet throb.
“Oh, the breadwinner has arrived,” he chuckled without looking up from the screen. “Listen, there’s something we need to talk about. Zoya’s birthday is on Saturday. Thirty years old. A milestone, all that.”
Zoya, Pavel’s younger sister, was loud, flashy, and completely shameless. Nadya immediately tensed.
“So? Are we going to a café?”
“What café? Have you seen the prices?” Pavel finally raised his eyes. There was that sly little sparkle in them — the one Nadya had once mistaken for charm. “She wanted to book a holiday lodge, but everything’s taken. So we talked it over… We’ll celebrate here.”
“Here?” Nadya froze, one button of her blouse half-undone. “Pash, the small room isn’t even finished after the renovation. And I’m exhausted after this week…”
“Oh, come on!” her husband interrupted, getting up and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. His hands were heavy and insistent. “There’s plenty of space. City center, easy for everyone to get to. Mom will come, Aunt Larisa, all our people. Zoya said there’s no point wasting money on rent when her brother’s palace is standing empty.”
“I don’t want to turn my day off into a cooking marathon,” Nadya said firmly, trying to slip out of his hold.
“What marathon?” Pavel sounded genuinely surprised. “We’ll order pizza, sushi rolls. Zoya will bring her salads, Mom will bring pies. All you have to do is open the door and smile. Come on, Nadya, why are you acting like a stranger? She’s my sister. I’ve already promised her. I’ll help, we’ll clean everything afterward. Man’s word.”
He kissed her temple, and Nadya, as often happened, gave in. She hated conflict and preferred even a fragile peace to a quarrel. Besides, Pavel knew how to persuade her when he wanted something. Anger pricked somewhere beneath her ribs — he had already promised without asking, simply presenting her with a fact. But she swallowed that feeling, hoping his promise to help would not turn out to be empty.
Part 2. A Parade of Hypocrisy in the Hallway
Saturday did not begin with coffee. It began with the doorbell, which seemed to have got stuck.
A loud, colorful crowd poured into the spacious hallway of the apartment. Zoya entered first, like an icebreaker. She was wearing a screaming red dress that barely covered her thighs, and in her hands was a huge bouquet, which she immediately thrust at Nadya without even saying hello.
“Oh, it’s so stuffy in here! Doesn’t your air conditioner work?” the birthday girl announced instead of greeting her, glancing up at the ceiling. “Pashka, you’re a roofer, couldn’t you fix the climate in your own home?”
Next came Tamara Ivanovna, Nadya’s mother-in-law. A heavyset woman with lips that always seemed pressed into a line. She carried a tiny bag in her hands — clearly not a bag full of pies.
“Nadenka, where should we put our coats? Your closet is so inconvenient, and there aren’t enough hangers,” she grumbled.
After them squeezed in Mitya, Pavel’s cousin, with his wife and two children, who instantly rushed deeper into the apartment without taking off their shoes. Closing the procession were a few of Zoya’s barely familiar friends and Aunt Larisa, a woman with the sharp, calculating eyes of a market vendor.
“Hello, everyone!” Pavel boomed cheerfully, stepping out of the bathroom wearing only shorts. “Oh, the whole gang is already here! Come in, make yourselves comfortable!”
Nadya stood holding the evergreen broom of gladioli, feeling like a doorman.
“Please take off your shoes. I just washed the floors,” she said, looking at the dirty marks left by Mitya’s boots.
“Oh, don’t be like that, Nadya. Dirt isn’t grease — it’ll dry and fall off!” Mitya laughed, walking in his boots straight across the expensive laminate. “We came here to celebrate, not pass a sanitary inspection.”
Meanwhile, Zoya was already taking charge by the mirror.
“Hey, Nadya, where’s the table? Why isn’t anything ready? Guests are at the door, and you haven’t even started.”
“Pavel said you’d bring food. That we’d order pizza,” Nadya said, bewildered.
The crowd in the hallway went silent as if on command. Tamara Ivanovna theatrically pressed a hand to her chest.
“Nadya, dear, what kind of pizza for an anniversary?” the mother-in-law drawled in a sugary voice. “That’s indecent. We thought you, as the hostess… Well, maybe some aspic, a hot dish. You have such a lovely kitchen — it would be a sin not to cook.”
“And besides,” Zoya snorted, fixing her makeup, “it was your idea to gather everyone at home. Pashka said so himself. Nadya insisted, he said. She wants to show off her cooking skills. I wasn’t going to drag containers across the whole city, was I?”
Nadya looked at her husband. Pavel, standing by the living room door, suddenly became very interested in a stain on the wallpaper.
“Pash?” she asked quietly.
“Well, I thought you’d manage to throw something together…” he muttered, avoiding her eyes. “Come on, girls, don’t fight. Nadya, just make some potatoes quickly, some cold cuts. The store’s nearby.”
Part 3. The Hot Workshop of Loneliness
The kitchen turned into hell. Four burners, an oven working at full blast, and a mountain of dirty dishes growing by the minute.
No one had brought anything. No food, no drinks — only a couple of bottles of cheap champagne and some vodka. Instead of helping as he had promised, Pavel was “entertaining the guests” in the living room. Laughter, clinking glasses, and music spilled out from behind the wall.
Nadya rushed between the stove and the cutting board. She peeled potatoes, her hands trembling from hurry and boiling anger. The knife slipped and sliced her finger. A dark bead of blood appeared. She stuck her finger under cold water, staring through the window at the gray wall of the neighboring building.
The door flew open, and Zoya burst into the kitchen, holding an empty glass.
“Nadya, why are you taking so long?” she whined. “People are hungry, the vodka’s warm. Where’s the ice? And make me some kind of cocktail. Drinking it straight is just not classy.”
Her feet were still in high heels.
“Zoya, take a knife and help me cut the cucumbers,” Nadya said dully, without turning around.
“Are you out of your mind?” Zoya widened her eyes. “I have a manicure! And I’m the birthday girl, in case you forgot. It’s your duty to please the guests. You invited everyone yourself!”
“I didn’t invite anyone,” Nadya said, pressing a napkin against her bleeding finger.
“Oh, don’t start that nonsense! Pasha said you begged for this. Said you were bored because you don’t have kids, so you wanted to fuss over family.”
Zoya grabbed a slice of sausage from the table, shoved it into her mouth, and turned to leave.
“Move faster. They’re already making toasts.”
Nadya remained standing in the middle of the kitchen. The roar of voices behind the wall grew louder. “No kids, bored…” echoed in her head. Contempt. Pure, unfiltered contempt for her, her home, her labor.
Pavel peered into the kitchen. His face was already red, his eyes glassy.
“Nad… Nadya!” he hiccupped. “Mitya spilled sauce on the tablecloth. Wash it out quickly or it’ll stain. And bring the chicken. We’re hungry.”
He tried to slap her backside, but Nadya sharply stepped away.
“You promised to help,” she hissed.
“Oh, come on! It’s a party! I’ll help tomorrow… Don’t nag, will you? You’re a woman. Your job is to create comfort.”
He took a bottle of mineral water from the table, drank straight from the neck, and left. Nadya looked at the chicken in the oven. The fat was sizzling. For a moment, she wanted to grab the baking tray and hurl it straight at the closed door. But instead, she took a deep breath.
Her anger changed shape. It became cold, dense, and heavy — like a lead bat.
Part 4. A Feast at the Trough
In the large living room, where her parents had once held quiet, cultured dinners, chaos now reigned. The table was covered with scraps of food, napkins, and empty bottles. Smoke from heated tobacco sticks hung in the air, even though Nadya had asked a hundred times not to smoke in the apartment.
She came in carrying a large platter of roasted chicken. Her arms ached, and her back burned.
“Oh, finally!” shouted Pavel’s brother-in-law. “The hostess has decided to feed us! I was starting to think we’d have to roast your cat!”
A burst of laughter shook the chandelier.
Nadya placed the platter on the edge of the table. No one moved aside. No one said thank you. Tamara Ivanovna immediately speared the fattiest piece with her fork.
“The chicken’s a bit dry, Nadya,” her mother-in-law declared after chewing. “I told you, you should bake it in a roasting sleeve. But you always do everything your own way. Ah, young people today — hands growing from the wrong place.”
“Come on, Mom, it’ll go down fine with vodka!” Pavel waved her off, pouring himself another shot. “Let’s drink to my sister! Zoya, you’re the best! And Nadya… well, Nadya tried her best. Though she could’ve done better, right, sweetheart?”
He winked at his wife, expecting her to play along.
At that moment, one of Zoya’s friends, a girl with inflated lips, asked loudly:
“Hey, Zoya, why is the apartment so… Soviet-looking? It needs a proper renovation. Loft style, high-tech, something like that. Right now it feels like a dusty museum.”
“Oh, don’t even start!” Zoya picked up immediately, poking at her plate with a fork. “I keep telling Pashka: sell this dump, buy a normal three-room place in a new building, and there’ll still be money left for a car. But Nadya refuses. Clings to it. Keeps saying ‘memories,’ ‘my parents.’ That’s greed, not memory. Sitting on all this space like a dog in the manger.”
“Exactly!” Mitya barked. “Pash, are you a man or what? Slam your fist on the table and that’s it. A woman needs to be trained. Look at my Lenka — sweet as silk. I say something, she does it. But yours is too clever for her own good. Counting subsidies all day, but can’t respect her husband.”
Nadya stood at the end of the table. She looked at them. At her mother-in-law’s greasy lips. At Zoya’s smug grin. At her husband, who nodded and laughed along with everyone, humiliating her in her own home.
“Bring beer,” Pavel ordered without looking at her. “In the fridge, bottom shelf. And hurry up.”
Something snapped.
Forever.
The fear of being “bad,” the fear of scandal, the fear of loneliness — all of it burned away in one second, leaving behind something primal and furious. Nadya felt her muscles fill with strength. She — the daughter of two engineers, an intelligent girl, a subsidies specialist — suddenly understood that words no longer worked here.
She slowly walked over to Pavel.
“What?” he raised his cloudy eyes. “Did you go deaf? I said beer…”
Nadya grabbed him by the collar of the fashionable shirt she herself had given him. The fabric cracked under her grip.
Part 5. The Stairwell of Shame
“Get up!” Nadya roared so loudly that the glass in the cabinet rang.
The conversations died instantly. Everyone stared at her.
“What the hell are you—” Pavel began, but he never finished.
Nadya yanked him upward with such force that his chair toppled over with a crash. She was not an athlete, but at that moment the energy of a berserker was raging inside her.
“Out of here! All of you!” she screamed, staring straight into Zoya’s stunned eyes.
“Nadya, are you out of your mind?” her mother-in-law babbled, dropping her fork. “We’re celebrating…”
“The celebration is over!”
Nadya grabbed the bowl of Olivier salad she had spent an hour preparing and overturned it straight onto Zoya’s lap. Mayonnaise and chopped vegetables slid down the red dress.
“Aaah! You’re insane!” Zoya shrieked, jumping up.
“Get out!” Nadya seized Zoya by the elbow and practically threw her toward the hallway. One of Zoya’s friends tried to stand up, but Nadya shoved her so hard that she fell back onto the sofa.
Pavel finally came to his senses and tried to grab his wife’s hands.
“What are you doing, you idiot?! Calm down!”
He raised his hand, but Nadya did not flinch. She intercepted his arm with unexpected agility and dug her nails into his face. Pavel howled.
“Don’t you dare!” she growled, pushing him with her chest, using her whole body like a battering ram. “You pathetic nobody! In my house! Humiliating me?”
She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him toward the exit. Buttons flew off, hitting the parquet. Pavel resisted, but he was drunk and confused, while Nadya was sober and filled with rage. She drove her knee into his thigh, forcing him to bend, then dragged him farther like a sack of trash.
“Mitya! Brother! Help me!” Pavel squealed.
But his “brotherhood” had already retreated into the corners. Mitya, seeing the mistress of the apartment turn into a fury, was urgently looking for his shoes. The mother-in-law wailed while clutching her handbag.
Nadya hauled Pavel out onto the stair landing.
“You’ll regret this!” Zoya screamed, trying to wipe off the mayonnaise. “We’ll sue you! Psycho!”
“Get out, you pigs!”
Nadya grabbed Pavel’s jacket from the coat rack and threw it into her mother-in-law’s face. Mitya’s boots flew after it, one of them hitting him in the shoulder.
She was not merely throwing them out. She was enjoying it. She grabbed guests by their clothes, tore fabric, shoved them in the back, and kicked their bags across the floor.
Pavel tried to get back on his feet on the stairwell landing. His shirt hung in tatters, red scratches burning across his cheek.
“Nadya, you’ve lost it…” he rasped, trying to recover the last remains of his authority. “Open the door. Let’s talk.”
Nadya stood in the doorway, disheveled, wild-eyed, breathing heavily.
“If you don’t disappear right now, I’ll call the police and say you hit me. Look at yourself,” she pointed at his scratched face. “No one will believe you. You are nobody here. Just a freeloader I tolerated. And all of you are pigs!”
At that moment, a neighbor’s door opened. Uncle Vanya, a retired colonel, stepped out.
“Nadya, do you need help?” he asked in a deep voice, measuring the miserable group of relatives with his eyes.
Pavel looked back at his family. At his mother, his sister, his cousin. He was waiting for support.
“You really are a rag, Pashka,” Zoya spat, smearing mascara across her cheeks. “Can’t even control your own woman. What a disgrace. You ruined my birthday. Let’s get out of here.”
His mother pressed her lips together and, without looking at her son, began descending the stairs.
“Mom? Zoya?” Pavel stretched out his hand in confusion.
“Don’t ‘Mom’ us!” his relatives snapped. “Deal with your hysterical wife yourself. We’re going to Larisa’s to keep celebrating. Without you. Loser.”
They left. The sound of footsteps faded away. Pavel remained alone on the dirty concrete floor, in torn clothes, without keys, without money — his man purse was still in the hallway — and, most importantly, without the support he had boasted about so proudly.
Nadya looked down at him. There was no love in her eyes, no pity. Only disgust, as if she were looking at a crushed cockroach.
“You’ll collect your things tomorrow in garbage bags by the entrance,” she said in a flat, icy voice.
“Nadya, come on… Where am I supposed to go?” he took a step toward the door.
Nadya silently slammed the heavy metal door right in front of his face. The locks clicked. Once. Twice. Three times.
Pavel pressed his forehead against the cold metal. Behind the door, he heard Nadya turn on the vacuum cleaner.
She was sweeping them out of her life.
For good.
