З життя
Я думала, что мы с бывшим снова сблизимся, но оказалось, что он использует меня для мести сестре
Вот же история — верила ведь в светлое чувство! Ну не дура, право? Все мы думаем, что настоящая любовь, как славный богатырь, пробьётся сквозь горы обид и пепелище прошлого. И вот, спустя пару лет после нашего с бывшим эпичного расставания, пишет мне вдруг Игорь Семёнов — да-да, тот самый, из-за которого я к психологу месяц ходила. Внутри аж ёкнуло — то ли от волнения, то ли от старой привычки паниковать при его имени.
Расстались мы, мягко говоря, некрасиво. Куча обид, парочка хлопнутых дверей, море слёз и десяток коробок мороженого «Пломбир» (спасибо, подруга Танька, что не дала умереть с голоду). Я вроде оправилась, даже с другим встречаться пробовала — не сложилось. Но Игорь… ну знаете, как старая царапина — вроде зажила, а тянет иногда перед дождём.
Встретились мы в уютной кофейне на Петроградской. Я пришла заранее, сижу, нервно кручу в руках бумажную салфетку — аж узоры стёрлись. И вот он заходит… всё тот же — высокий, слегка небритый, взгляд этот тёплый, прямо как раньше. Улыбнулся, обнял — и я, дура, чуть не растаяла, будто и не было этих двух лет.
Разговорились. Сначала о ерунде — как работа, какие новости, кто женился, кто развёлся. Говорил он так душевно, так внимательно слушал, что я уже начала верить: а вдруг?.. Ну мало ли, люди же меняются!
Но тут он вдруг замолчал, лицо потемнело, словно туча набежала. Я внутренне напряглась — чует сердце подвох.
— Света, — вздохнул он тяжело, — дело-то не в тебе. Вообще не в тебе.
Я аж привстала:
— Это ещё что за поворот сюжета? Говори прямо!
Он посмотрел на меня с каким-то странным облегчением, будто гвоздь из ботинка вытащил:
— Я вообще-то к твоей сестре претензии имею. К Кате. Она мне рога наставила, да ещё и смеялась потом. Вот я и решил… через тебя ей месть устроить.
У меня в ушах зазвенело, будто в колокол ударили.
— То есть… весь этот вечер, эти нежности — это просто спектакль? Ты… с чего вдруг Катя?! Она же…
— Она полгода со мной крутила, а потом выяснилось, что у неё уже кто-то есть! — прорычал он. — Ну и я подумал… пусть через тебя почувствует, каково это.
Вот так вот. Оказывается, я не возлюбленная, не друг, не человек даже — а так, инструмент в его руках. Инструмент мести.
Слёзы подступили, но я их прогнала — не для него они. Встала, сумку схватила.
— Игорь, поздравляю — ты не просто подлец, ты ещё и кретин. Катя замужем уже три года! И вообще, если тебе месть нужна — иди в драматический кружок записывайся, а мои чувства не трогай.
Он сидел, будто глиняный, а я вышла на улицу. Морозец по щекам, слёзы на ветру сохнут быстро. И только одна мысль в голове: «Ну хоть теперь-то точно выучу урок — не верить мужчинам, которые вдруг «исправились»…»
Лучше уж правда, даже горькая, чем сладкая ложь. А сестре… сестре потом расскажу. Может, даже посмеёмся. Когда-нибудь.
You’re Robbing My Son Blind—He Can’t Even Afford a Light Bulb! On Sunday morning, I was curled up on the sofa with a blanket while my husband drove over to his mother’s to “change some light bulbs.” But of course, the real reason for summoning her darling boy was something else entirely: “Son, have you forgotten it’s Igor’s birthday today?” My husband’s the generous type—his salary barely lasts a week. Thankfully, he still gives me cash for the bills and groceries, but the rest? He blows it all on new video games and whatever gadgets go with them. I don’t mind; better my man enjoys his hobbies than squanders his time (and money) in pubs or nightclubs. Besides, I once read that the first forty years of childhood are the hardest for any man. I’m not telling you this for sympathy, just so you understand why my husband always has empty pockets. I have no such problem—even manage to save. I often lend him money in emergencies, but when it’s for his mum, niece, or sister, I always say no. Naturally, I remembered Igor’s birthday. Last week, I bought his present myself. Before my husband set off, I handed it over and settled down to watch a film. I didn’t go—the mutual animosity between me and my in-laws made sure of that. They think I don’t love him, accuse me of being mean because I refuse to fund their expenses or mind my sister-in-law’s kids. Once, I watched them for an hour, but they picked them up half a day late, making me miss work—when I dared complain, his mum and sister called me shameless and rude. After that, any requests to babysit were met with a firm “no.” Didn’t bother me if my husband watched the kids—he enjoys their company. Not long after my husband left, he returned—with the whole family in tow, nieces and all. His mum barged in, coat still on, and declared: “We’ve decided that, for Igor’s birthday, he’ll get the tablet he wanted—two grand it cost. You owe me a thousand pounds for your share. Pay up.” I might have bought the lad a tablet—but nothing that expensive. Obviously, I refused to hand over any cash. That’s when my husband started guilt-tripping me for being stingy. I turned on the laptop and called Igor over. In five minutes, we picked and ordered a gadget he really wanted—job done. Thrilled, Igor dashed off to his mum, who’d been sulking in the hallway. My sister-in-law always had sticky fingers—nothing in our house was safe. My mother-in-law, meanwhile, ignored my thoughtful gesture and exploded with indignation: “No one asked for your help. You were meant to give money! You’re with my son, and he’s always skint, can’t even buy a lightbulb. Hand me a thousand pounds now—you know full well that money belongs to my boy!” She reached for my handbag on the nightstand. I glared at my husband and hissed, “You’ve got three minutes to get them out of here.” In less than three minutes, he’d grabbed his mother and chucked her and the lot of them out the door. So, yes, I’d rather my husband waste his wages on games than have his mother snatch every penny. At least he spends it on things that make him happy, not on those freeloaders. Sometimes, I genuinely think I’d have been better off marrying an orphan!
Youre robbing my son, he cant even afford a lightbulb. One Sunday morning, I was curled up under a blanket...
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