З життя
Розчарування в обраниці: чому я вирішив розірвати стосунки після візиту до її оселі
Відчувши розчарування в своїй обраниці, я залишив її відразу після візиту до її оселі.
Понад тринадцять років я був одружений, і моя колишня дружина ніколи не вважалася класичною красунею. В юності вона зачарувала мене своєю крихкістю, ніжністю, певною невловимою м’якістю, що зачіпала душу. Не скажу, що вона була сліпучою, але завжди вміла себе подати. Дорога мереживна білизна, якою вона себе тішила, полиці у нашій ванній, заставлені кремами, парфумами, маслами й косметикою — все це було частиною її світу. Пляшечок і баночок було стільки, що я губився в їх кількості, але вона завжди пахла, як квітковий сад. Ми обидва мали добрі заробітки, жили у достатку, і вона могла дозволити собі ці маленькі розкоші.
Моя колишня ніколи не дозволяла собі ходити вдома у розтягнутих обносках — її волосся завжди було укладене, одяг випрасуваний. Мені подобалися такі жінки: доглянуті, впевнені у собі. Але доля розпорядилася інакше — п’ять років тому ми розлучилися, і з того часу моє життя стало низкою короткочасних зустрічей. Жінки з’являлися і зникали, не залишаючи сліду, поки я не зустрів її — Оксану. Вона здавалася з іншого світу: гарна, приваблива, з тонкими рисами обличчя і впевненою ходою. Вона керувала чоловічим колективом на роботі з такою легкістю, що я мимоволі в неї захопився. Вирішив: таку не можна упускати.
Все почалося з невинних розмов, та незабаром я запросив її до себе додому в Києві. Готувати не став — замовив вечерю з ресторану, зате стіл накрив сам, вклавши в це душу. Вечір пройшов чарівно: вино, сміх, довгі погляди. Оксана залишилася у мене на ніч, і з того часу стала частою гостею. Та чим частіше вона приходила, тим більше мене бентежила її поведінка. Вона ніколи не приносила з собою ні косметички, ні змінного одягу, ні білизни. Вранці я бачив її у жахливому стані: розмазана туш, сплутане волосся, втомлене обличчя. Після душу вона натягувала ті ж самі речі, що носила вчора, і це різало мені очі. Чесно кажучи, я був розчарований до глибини душі.
Одного разу Оксана запросила мене до себе. Я йшов з думкою, що побачу хаос — її звички у мене вдома натякали на недбалість. Але коли я переступив поріг її квартири, мене охопив шок. Переді мною відкрився не безлад, а… щось інше. Усередині був свіжий ремонт — стильний, дорогий, з якісними меблями і модними деталями. Все кричало про смак і достаток. Але коли я зайшов у ванну помити руки, моє серце звело тугою. На поличці сиротливо стояли лише шампунь та зубна паста. І все. Ні краплі розкоші, ні натяку на турботу про себе. Я пригадав свою колишню — її полички ломилися від пляшечок, ванна благоухала ароматами, і це для мене було ознакою жіночності, самоповаги. А тут — пустота.
Оксані нещодавно виповнилося 33, але, схоже, вона навіть не задумувалася про те, як зберегти молодість. Невже її не лякають зморшки, в’януча шкіра? Я стояв, дивлячись на цю скромну поличку, і відчував, як всередині зростає розчарування. Та справжній удар чекав мене на балконі. Туди, на мотузку, сушилася її білизна — сіра, проста, без натяку на витонченість. Вона помітила мій погляд і недбало кинула: «Для мене головне — зручність». Ці слова прозвучали як вирок.
Може, в свої 42 я став надто прискіпливим? Можливо, мої звички, мої очікування — це тягар минулого, який я не можу скинути? Але я зрозумів: з такою жінкою я жити не зможу. Ми розсталися — я сам поставив крапку. Пішов, не озираючись, з важким серцем, але з упевненістю, що не зможу прийняти цю порожнечу там, де сподівався побачити красу і турботу. Оксана була прекрасна ззовні, але всередині її дому я побачив лише байдужість до себе — і це вбило все, що могло між нами бути.
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No One Left to Talk To: A Story “Mum, what are you saying? How can you say you’ve got no one to talk to? I call you twice a day,” her daughter asked wearily. “No, sweetheart, that’s not what I meant,” Nina Anderson sighed sadly. “I just don’t have any friends or acquaintances left who are my age. From my time.” “Mum, don’t talk nonsense. You still have your school friend Irene. And honestly, you’re so modern and you look much younger than you are. Oh, Mum, what’s wrong?” her daughter fretted. “You know Irene has asthma; when she talks on the phone she starts coughing. And she lives all the way on the other side of the city. There were three of us friends, remember I told you? But Mary’s been gone for a long time. Yesterday, Tanya from the flat next door popped in. I made her a cuppa—she’s a lovely woman, often drops by. She even brought over some buns she’d baked for her family. She told me about her children and grandchildren. She’s got grandchildren, even though she’s about fifteen years younger than me. But her childhood, her memories—they’re so different from mine. I just long for a chat with peers, people like me,” Nina Anderson explained, though she realised perfectly well that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time wasn’t gone—it was just outside the window. She didn’t yet yearn for memories. Sveta was wonderful and caring; it wasn’t about her. “Mum, I got us tickets for a night of classic ballads on Tuesday. Remember you wanted to go? No more sulking—put on your burgundy dress, you look stunning in it!” “All right, darling, everything’s fine. I don’t know what came over me, good night, we’ll speak tomorrow. Go to bed early—you hardly get any sleep,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight. Bye,” and Svetlana hung up. Nina Anderson gazed silently at the glittering evening lights outside… Year Eleven, also spring. So many plans. It seemed so recent. Her friend Irene fancied Simon Mallory from their class. But Simon liked Nina. He’d call her every evening, invite her out. But Nina thought of him as just a friend—why raise his hopes? Later Simon left for the army. He came back, married, lived in Irene’s old house. Back then everyone had a landline. The number… Nina Anderson dialled the number from memory. The tone didn’t come at once—then someone picked up, there was rustling and then a quiet man’s voice: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it’s too late? Why did I call? Maybe Simon doesn’t even remember me, or maybe it’s not him at all! “Good evening,” Nina’s voice rasped a little with nerves. There was more static on the line, then suddenly she heard an astonished voice: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d know your voice anywhere. How did you find me? I’m only here by chance….” “Simon, you recognised me!” A wave of joyful memories swept over Nina Anderson. No one had called her by her name for ages—just “mum”, “granny”, or “Mrs Anderson”. Well, except Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, so fresh—as if the years hadn’t passed at all. “Nina, how are you? I’m so glad to hear from you.” Those words made her ridiculously happy. She’d feared he wouldn’t recognise her, or her call would be out of place. “Do you remember Year Eleven? When Simon and Victor took you and Irene out in that rowing boat? He’d blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. Then we ate ice cream on the riverside while the music played,” Simon’s voice was soft and wistful. “Of course I remember!” Nina laughed joyfully, “And that class camping trip? We couldn’t get the tins open, we were so hungry!” “Oh yes,” Simon chuckled, “Then Victor opened them and we sang songs by the campfire. Do you remember? After that, I decided to learn the guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice rang with youthful delight at all these shared memories. It was like Simon was reviving their happy past, recalling detail after detail. “So, how are things now?” Simon asked, but immediately answered himself, “Actually, I can tell from your voice you’re happy. Children, grandchildren? You still writing poems? I remember: ‘To dissolve into the night and be reborn by morning!’ So full of hope! You always were like sunshine, Nina! You bring warmth to everyone, no one could be cold around you. Your family’s so lucky—to have a mum and granny like you is pure gold.” “Oh, come off it, Simon, I’m long past that. My time’s over, I—” He interrupted. “Come on, you give out so much energy I think my phone’s about to melt! Just kidding. I don’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—not a bit. That means your time isn’t over yet, Nina. So live—and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Simon, you’re still such a romantic. What about you? I’m going on and on about myself…” But suddenly there was a crackle and the call cut out. Nina sat there, phone in hand. She wanted to ring back, but it was late—better not. Another time. What a wonderful chat they’d had—so many memories! The sudden ringtone made Nina jump. Her granddaughter. “Yes, Daisy, hello, I’m still up. What did Mum say? No, my mood’s fine. I’m going to a concert with Mum. Are you coming over tomorrow? Wonderful, see you then. Bye.” In an unexpectedly good mood, Nina Anderson went to bed, head full of plans. As she drifted off, she found herself composing lines for a new poem… In the morning, Nina decided to visit Irene. Just a few stops on the tram—she wasn’t a creaky old nag yet. Irene was delighted: “At last! You’ve been promising for ages. Ooh, is that an apricot tart? My favourite! Well, spill, what’s brought this on?” Irene coughed, pressing her hand to her chest, then waved Nina’s concern away. “It’s all right, new inhaler—I’m better. Come on, let’s have tea. Nina, you look younger somehow—come on, tell me!” “I don’t know—my fifth youth!” Nina laughed as she sliced the tart. “Yesterday I rang Simon Mallory by accident… remember your crush in Year Eleven? We got to reminiscing—I’d forgotten half of it. What’s up, Irene? Not another asthma attack?” Irene sat pale and silent, then whispered: “Nina, you didn’t know? Simon passed away a year ago. He lived in another part of town—he moved from that old place ages ago.” “You must be joking! How? Who was I talking to? He remembered everything about our school days. My mood was terrible before talking to him. But after we spoke, I felt life was carrying on—that I still had strength, and joy for living… How could it be?” Nina couldn’t believe Simon was gone. “But I heard his voice. He said such beautiful things: ‘The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, sceptical of her friend’s story. Then she surprised Nina by saying: “Nina, I don’t know how, but it really does sound like it was him. His words, his style. Simon loved you. I think he wanted to support you… from the other side. And it looks like he did. I haven’t seen you so happy and full of energy for ages. One day, someone will piece your tattered heart back together. And you’ll finally remember—what it feels like to be… simply happy.”
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