My suitor mocked my dinner in front of the guests. Ten minutes later, he was standing in the stairwell with his suitcase
“Come on, Marisha, the pink salmon turned out a bit dry,” Vitalik said, poking at the fish under the baked cheese crust with obvious disgust. “I told you we should’ve bought a proper beef tenderloin. Look, the guys are practically choking it down.”
His old school friend gave a restrained snort and reached for the salad. An awkward silence hung in the room.
I was standing by the door with a tray of clean plates. I gripped the edge of the plastic so hard it gave a quiet crack.
I had bought that fish myself. That morning, after a twenty-four-hour shift at the pharmacy. With my own money. Just like the expensive cheeses, the sliced meats, and the fresh vegetables his guests were now devouring. In the four months we had been living together, Vitalik had bought exactly two things for the house: a pack of cheap tea and a roll of paper towels.
“At least she’s a convenient woman,” Vitalik leaned back in his chair and lowered his voice just enough for me to hear. “She’s got her own apartment, she works. In the kitchen, of course, she’s no chef, but now that there’s a man in the house, we’ll teach her the proper order of things. Hey, Marina!” he raised his voice. “Bring the sudzhuk from the fridge. Why are you hiding it? Or are you too stingy to give it to my friends?”
Look at him, the provider. He had shown up at my place in winter with one plaid bag. He ate my food, crushed my sofa, and now he was sitting there, sober and shameless, boosting his ego at my expense.
I silently put the tray on the dresser. Turned around and went into the bedroom.
I pulled that same dusty Chinese bag with the faulty zipper out from under the bed. I opened the wardrobe door. I grabbed his sweatpants with the stretched-out knees, a couple of shirts, and his socks in one armful. I shoved everything inside, all mixed together. Then I threw his razor on top. The zipper caught the fabric, and I yanked it with all my strength, almost tearing the pull tab off.
I slipped on my house shoes, grabbed the bag by the handles, and dragged it into the hallway.
Continued in the comments.
“Marina, the pink salmon came out a bit dry,” Vitalik said, poking at the fish under the baked cheese crust with disgust. “I told you we should’ve bought a proper beef tenderloin. Look, the guys are practically choking it down.”
His old school friend gave a strained chuckle and reached for the salad. An awkward silence settled over the room.
I was standing by the door with a tray of clean plates. I gripped the edge of the plastic so hard it gave a quiet crack.
I had bought the fish myself. That morning, after a twenty-four-hour shift at the pharmacy. With my own money. Just like the expensive cheeses, the cold cuts, and the fresh vegetables the guests were now devouring. In the four months we had lived together, Vitalik had bought exactly two things for the apartment: a pack of cheap tea and a roll of paper towels.
“At least she’s a convenient woman,” Vitalik leaned back in his chair and lowered his voice, but only enough for me to hear. “Has her own apartment, works. She’s no chef in the kitchen, of course, but now that there’s a man in the house, we’ll teach her the proper order of things. Hey, Marina!” he raised his voice. “Bring the sujuk from the fridge. Why are you hiding it? Or is it too good for my friends?”
Look at him, the great provider. He had shown up at my place in winter with one plaid bag. Ate my food, wore out my sofa, and now sat there asserting himself at my expense in a sober, brazen voice.
Without a word, I set the tray on the dresser. Turned around and went into the bedroom.
I pulled that same dusty Chinese bag with the jammed zipper out from under the bed. Opened the wardrobe door. Grabbed his sweatpants with stretched-out knees, a couple of shirts, and his socks in one armful. I shoved everything inside in a heap. Threw his razor on top. The zipper caught the fabric, and I yanked it with all my strength, nearly tearing off the pull tab.
I slipped on my house slippers, grabbed the bag by the handles, and dragged it into the hallway.
“What the hell is this performance?” Vitalik stuck his head out of the living room. His face went long when he saw his belongings on the doormat by the door.
“The performance is over. Grab your crap and get out.”
The guests at the table fell silent at once. Chairs scraped against the floor.
Vitalik turned crimson, ugly red blotches spreading over his neck.
“Are you trying to humiliate me in front of the guys?” he hissed, taking a step toward me. “Have you completely lost your mind? I’ve been living here for four months! I bought the microwave for this place! I’m not going anywhere. I have rights!”
“The only right you have is to shut your mouth,” I said, clicking the lock and throwing the front door wide open. “Under the Civil Code, cohabitation doesn’t give you a single centimeter of my living space. And the electronic receipt for the microwave is in my banking app. Paid for with my card. If you’re not out of here in one minute, I’m calling the police and reporting you under Article 139 for illegal entry into a residence. Do you understand me?”
His friends understood first. They slipped sideways into the hallway, hiding their eyes, hurriedly pulled their jackets off the coat rack, and spilled out onto the stairwell.
Vitalik stood there, shifting from foot to foot. His arrogance vanished instantly.
“Marina… come on. I was just joking. The guests were here, it got awkward…”
“The clock is ticking, Vitalik. Our district officer lives in the building next door. He’ll come quickly.”
In anger, he kicked the doormat by the threshold, grabbed his bulky bag, and stormed out the door without even putting on his jacket.
I turned the key twice in the lock. Straightened the crooked doormat.
My phone started exploding closer to midnight. Vitalik sent walls of text. First he threatened me, then he tried pity: “Where am I supposed to sleep?” “Send me at least a thousand, I don’t have enough for a hotel.” By morning, he came out with a brilliant one: “Give me back the money for the internet. I paid for it last month!”
I simply sent his number to the blacklist.
Later, my friends at work shook their heads. “How did you manage to do that? You should’ve at least told him everything, smashed a plate on the floor!”
But why? When a grown man deliberately humiliates you in your own home at your own expense, words are unnecessary. Parasites will always look for someone to ride for free. But in my apartment, the ticket inspector had already passed through, and the fare dodger was sent out into the street.