Lena stayed in possession of the city

Lena stood in the middle of the room, and it seemed to her as if the entire evening—the candles, the rich scent of cream sauce, the delicate glasses with their faceted stems—was a theatrical set that someone had forgotten to put away after a disastrous performance. The candle flames flickered in the draft seeping through the poorly closed window, making the shadows on the walls seem alive: elongated, nervous, alien.

Dmitry sat with his boots still on, his legs spread wide, watching the news as intently as if his own fate depended on the price of oil. The bluish light from the television made his face look flat, almost like plaster. Sometimes Lena felt like she was living not with a person, but with a carefully constructed structure of habits: morning coffee, work, evening beer, marital bed on a schedule. Everything was reliable. Everything was right. Everything was dead.

She came closer.

“Dim…” she said quietly. “Are you happy at all?”

He didn’t immediately understand the question. He turned his head slowly, with the slight irritation of a man distracted from something important.

– Why should I be unhappy?

— I don’t know. You’re just… like you’re always somewhere else.

He smiled at the corner of his mouth.

“Len, you’re starting your bookish conversations again. Life isn’t a movie. People work, they get tired. They don’t jump around each other 24/7.”

She sat down opposite him, her fingers intertwined. A feeling like winter water was rising inside her: cold, viscous, slowly filling her chest.

– What if I don’t have enough of it?

— What exactly?

– You.

He exhaled heavily and turned down the volume on the TV, as if he were making a serious concession.

— Listen. We got married. Everything is fine with us. We have an apartment, we have money, we don’t drink, we don’t fight. What more do you want?

These words struck harder than a scream. There was something final in them. Like a seal on a document.

Not love. A device.