After dropping his mistress off, Buchin gently said goodbye and headed home. He lingered by the entrance for a moment, mentally rehearsing what he was about to say to his wife. Then he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
“Hey,” Buchin called out. “Vera, are you home?”
“At home,” his wife replied flatly. “Hey. So, are we frying escalope tonight or what?”
Buchin vowed to be direct—firm, decisive, and manly. He was ready to end his double life before the warmth of his mistress’s kisses cooled and before he got dragged back into the dull routine of his ordinary existence.
“Vera,” he cleared his throat. “I came to tell you… we need to part ways.”
Vera reacted with an unexpected calmness. It was notoriously hard to rattle her. Buchin used to tease her for it, nicknaming her “Ice Vera.”
“So what does that mean?” Vera asked from the kitchen doorway. “No escalope for me?”
“Up to you,” Buchin said. “If you want, cook it. If not, don’t. I’m leaving for another woman.”
Most wives would fly into a rage at such words—throwing pans or creating a scene. But Vera wasn’t like most.
“Big deal,” she muttered. “Did you bring my boots back from the cobbler?”
“No,” Buchin stammered. “If it’s that important, I’ll go get them right now!”
“Oh, sure…” Vera grumbled. “That’s typical Buchin. Send a fool to get the boots—he’ll bring back the old ones.”
Buchin felt slighted. His announcement about ending their marriage seemed to fall flat. Where were the emotions, the fiery confrontations, the furious accusations? But what else could he expect from a wife nicknamed Ice Vera?
“Vera, I think you’re not listening!” Buchin exclaimed. “I’m officially telling you: I’m leaving you for another woman, and you’re worried about some boots?”
“That’s right,” Vera replied. “Unlike me, you can walk away anywhere you want. Your boots aren’t even in the shop. Why not just keep wearing them?”
They’d been together a long time, but Buchin never quite learned when Vera was joking and when she was serious. He’d fallen for her steady nature, her calmness, and her quietness. Plus, her practicality and shapely figure didn’t hurt.
Vera was dependable, loyal, and as cold as a thirty-ton ship’s anchor. But now Buchin loved another—passionately, sinfully, and sweetly. It was time to put an end to things and start a new chapter.
“So, Vera,” Buchin said with a note of solemnity, regret, and sorrow. “I’m grateful for everything, but I’m leaving because I love another woman. And I don’t love you anymore.”
“Wow,” Vera said dryly. “He doesn’t love me, that half-witted half-cat! My mom, for example, loved the neighbor. And my dad loved dominoes and vodka. And look what a wonderful person I turned out to be.”
Buchin knew arguing with Vera was pointless. Every word she spoke weighed like a stone. His initial fire drained away, and the urge to argue disappeared.
“Vera, you really are amazing,” Buchin said sourly. “But I love another. I love her with fire, sin, and sweetness. And I intend to leave for her, understand?”
“Another—who? Natasha Krapivina?” his wife asked.
Buchin stepped back. A year ago, he had indeed had a secret affair with Krapivina, but he never imagined Vera knew her!
“How do you know her?” he began, then stopped. “Never mind. No, Vera, it’s not Krapivina.”
Vera yawned.
“Then maybe Svetlana Burbulskaya? Are you heading for her?”
A chill ran down Buchin’s spine. Burbulskaya had also been his lover—but that was in the past. If Vera knew, why had she never said anything? Oh right, she was as tough as granite—couldn’t get a word out of her.
“You’re wrong,” Buchin said. “Neither Burbulskaya nor Krapivina. It’s a completely different, breathtaking woman—the pinnacle of my dreams. I can’t live without her, and I’m going to leave you for her. Don’t try to stop me!”
“Then it’s probably Maika,” Vera said. “Oh, Buchin-Buchin… you’re a cracked organica. Secret’s out. The pinnacle of your dreams is Maya Valentinovna Gusyaeva. Thirty-five years old, one kid, two abortions… Got it?”
Buchin grabbed his head. That hit the mark! His affair was indeed with Maya Gusyaeva.
“How?” Buchin stammered. “Who told you? Were you spying on me?”
“Elementary, Buchin,” Vera said calmly. “My dear, I’m an experienced gynecologist. I’ve examined every woman in this damn town while you’ve only seen a small fraction. I just need to look in the right places to know where you’ve been, you pea-headed dummy!”
Buchin gathered himself.
“Alright, suppose you’re right!” he said defiantly. “Even if it is Gusyaeva, it doesn’t change anything—I’m leaving for her.”
“You fool, Buchin,” Vera said. “At least ask me for advice! By the way, there’s nothing remarkable about Gusyaeva—she’s just like every other woman, that’s coming from me as a doctor. And have you seen your dream woman’s medical record?”
“N-no…” Buchin admitted.
“Exactly! First, go take a shower immediately. Second, tomorrow I’ll call Semyonych and get you an appointment at the clinic without waiting,” Vera said. “Then we’ll talk. This is shameful: the husband of a gynecologist can’t find himself a healthy woman!”
“So, what should I do?” Buchin whined.
“I’m off to fry the escalope,” Vera said. “You go wash up and do whatever you want. If you want a dream woman without any problems—come to me, I’ll recommend someone.