Mary and George married 15 years ago. Over the years they spent together, they managed to acquire two apartments in the city center, but with time, the passion between them faded.
George owned a hardware store, and the family had enough money, so Mary pursued what she loved—creating exclusive pottery. She completed pottery courses and enjoyed making all sorts of pots, plates, vases, and even tea sets. It was hard to call her a successful businesswoman since few in the city appreciated her work, but she occasionally found buyers. George, on the other hand, was simply happy that his wife didn’t have to work, and he enjoyed feeling like the provider and breadwinner.
Seven years ago, George and Mary bought an apartment for their future child, but they never managed to have one: Mary was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome, making pregnancy extremely difficult for her. She withdrew into herself, and though George never stopped comforting and supporting her, it was as if she didn’t hear him. Over time, the pain dulled, but Mary felt almost nothing for George anymore. She had grown accustomed to her caring husband and enjoyed occasional conversations with him, but the feelings she once had were gone.
— What are you thinking of doing today? — George asked, finishing his morning coffee.
— Same as usual, — Mary shrugged. — I’ll head to my studio and make something beautiful.
— How about I take some of your work to my store? — her husband suggested. — Especially if you make something decorative. Couples often come in, and while the men pick out drills or lumber, the women get bored standing around.
— You think it’d be nice if they could buy a little vase for flowers while the men shop for building supplies? — Mary giggled.
George chuckled too and kissed her on the forehead.
— Yeah. So make us lots and lots of vases.
— Alright, — Mary smiled. — I was also thinking, why let that apartment just sit empty? Let’s rent it out, save the money for a vacation, and get out of the city this summer.
George paused for a moment. “That” apartment was never referred to by any other name by his wife; she avoided talking about it. It was meant for the child they never had. Mary blamed herself and him, thinking that if they had tried for children earlier, things might have worked out. Talking about “that” apartment was taboo, and they didn’t need the extra money.
Why had Mary suddenly brought it up? On the other hand, the apartment was furnished, and they could afford to buy a refrigerator and small appliances. They hadn’t gone on vacation in ages, always short on time, and George’s deputy was reluctant to manage the store alone. After some thought, George realized his wife wanted to shake off her melancholy and escape the city’s hustle.
— Alright, dear, let’s rent out the apartment. Will you handle the listings and find a tenant? I’ll take care of buying the necessities.
— Of course.
George finished his coffee, kissed his wife on the cheek, and headed to work. Mary posted listings online and, just in case, found a realtor’s number. Thinking about the apartment’s original purpose was painful, but the empty space felt like a constant reminder of their family tragedy. She no longer wanted it to stand vacant, visited only a couple of times a month to clean and mourn.
After finishing her tasks, Mary went to her studio. She sketched designs for beautiful vases and flowerpots, drew plans for oven-safe clay dishes, and was about to start sculpting when her phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number, and she immediately thought it might be a potential tenant.
— Hello?
— Hi, I’m calling about your listing, — a man’s voice confirmed her guess. — Are you renting out an apartment?
— Yes, that’s right.
— Can I take a look?
— Um, yes, of course, but there’s a small issue. There’s no appliances yet, though my husband and I will buy everything needed soon.
— Well, I’ve got a kettle and a couple of pots, — the man said thoughtfully.
— A refrigerator too? — Mary teased but quickly corrected herself. — We’ll have everything delivered by the end of the week.
— Got it, but can I still see it? I need a place urgently, and I can manage without a fridge for a bit.
— Well, if that’s the case, — Mary pursed her lips. She hadn’t expected to find a tenant so quickly and felt a pang of sadness for the little apartment. — Of course, you can see it. When would you like to?
— How about today? — the man replied eagerly.
— Alright, let’s meet at the address around 6 p.m. Will that work?
— Perfect. Oh, by the way, my name’s Victor.
— I’m Mary, nice to meet you. See you then.
Mary hung up and paused. Why was he in such a rush to find a place? It was far from student season, yet this man was ready to consider a place without appliances. Strange. She decided to call George and tell him about the meeting.
— George, hi, a man just called about the apartment.
— Wow, that was fast! That’s great news.
— Well, maybe… But he said he needs it urgently and wasn’t even fazed by the lack of a fridge.
— All sorts of things happen. Maybe he’s going through a divorce.
— Or some kind of drug addict, — Mary muttered.
— So, did you arrange a meeting?
— Yes, today around six.
— I’ll go with you. We’ll see what kind of person he is. If we have any doubts, we just won’t rent to him.
— Alright. Well, I’ll call you later.
— Bye.
Mary returned to her work with less calm. She kept wondering who could need a place so urgently. Her thoughts weren’t cheerful; she even imagined a fugitive criminal. Eventually, she got so worked up that she decided to stop thinking about it. George promised to go with her, and he was good at reading people. At five, she called him to say she was ready to go. George said he’d be at her studio in 15 minutes, and they’d have time for coffee before meeting the tenant. They stopped at a café on the way, where Mary shared her concerns, but George brushed them off, assuring her he’d spot any troublemaker. At the building’s entrance, a young man was waiting. He looked neat but had dark circles under his eyes, likely from lack of sleep.
— Hello, are you Victor? — George asked.
— Yes, good evening. You must be here about the apartment? I spoke with your wife.
— That’s right. I’m George, and this is Mary. Shall we take a look?
— Nice to meet you, — the young man smiled.
— Let’s go.
George saw nothing suspicious in Victor’s appearance. Just an ordinary, tired guy, it seemed. They went up to the apartment. Victor took off his shoes to avoid dirtying the floor and waited for the hosts to show him around. There wasn’t much to see. It was a one-bedroom apartment with a balcony, separate bathroom, bedding, a couple of towels, a fold-out sofa, a pillow, a wardrobe, a table, a washing machine in the bathroom, a kitchen set with a hood, and a stove. That concluded the brief tour.
— Of course, if you rent the place, we’ll bring in a refrigerator, microwave, kettle, and dishes by the end of the week, — George finished.
— Perfect! — Victor seemed almost thrilled. — I’m ready to sign everything right now.
— Hmm, may I ask why the rush? — George inquired.
— Oh, it probably seems suspicious, — Victor said, embarrassed. — It’s actually simple. I’m an artist, just moved here from a small town nearby. My old neighbors were ‘golden youth,’ — he grimaced. — Constant noise, parties, I couldn’t sleep or work. I also work nights at a warehouse, so I really need to rest. It’s quiet here, no one’s shouting through the walls, and I can paint on the balcony without airing out the place for hours. I just want to move out as soon as possible.
— Oh, I see… I was thinking all sorts of things! — Mary laughed awkwardly, embarrassed by her earlier suspicions. — Well, I like our tenant. What about you?
— Seems like a decent young man, — George smiled. — You can move in whenever you’re ready, and we’ll draw up the contract later, alright?
— Great! — Victor gave his contact info, shared his ID details, and promised to keep the place clean. Mary softened.
— You know, move in today, — she offered, still feeling awkward. — We’ll leave you the keys, and we’ll sign the contract tomorrow.
— That’d be amazing, — Victor replied.
— George?
— Sure, — George waved his hand. — Move in.
On the way home, Mary explained to George why she made the offer, how embarrassed she felt for suspecting Victor, and George just teased and laughed. They were both pleased with renting out the apartment. By the end of the week, George bought all the appliances and delivered them, checking on the tenant’s reliability. The apartment was spotless, with an easel and an unfinished canvas on the balcony. Victor was about to eat pizza and offered some to George. George hadn’t been wrong—Victor was indeed a decent person. A week later, Mary thought they hadn’t provided enough small essentials for their tenant. She decided to gather some items and visit him.
— What are you doing? — George asked, surprised, as Mary carefully packed one of her many dish sets into a box.
— I was thinking, how’s Victor managing with just one plate? And he doesn’t have spare bedding…
— He’ll buy it. He’s not a kid.
— George, do we really want to seem like bad landlords? We’ve got plenty of this stuff—look, three bedding sets still unopened. I’ll bring him one to use.
— Mary, he’s got money for all that.
— What, you’re stingy now? — Mary crossed her arms.
— You were the one suspecting him of being a fugitive not long ago, — George chuckled. Seeing her blush, he added tactfully, — Alright, he turned out fine. You’re right, the guy’s got nothing. Young artist, working at some warehouse—clearly not rolling in money. Take him some household stuff.
— Perfect.
Mary packed a couple of bags with dishes, bedding, cutlery, and small items. On the way, she bought a pack of pastries for tea. Victor opened the door and happily invited her to stay, mentioning that pizza was due in 15 minutes.
— All you eat is junk food? — Mary said reproachfully. Victor was 20 years younger, so she felt she could speak to him informally.
— I never quite learned to cook, — he replied, embarrassed.
— Is that your painting drying? — she asked, glancing at the balcony.
— Yeah, want to see?
— Of course.
Victor led her to the balcony, where a canvas showed a calm sea with a ship sailing into the sunset. Though the subject was common, almost clichéd, Mary was struck by his style. Victor painted in hyperrealism, his works resembling photographs.
— Wow…
— Almost a month’s work, — Victor sighed. — It’s tough painting in this style.
— But it’s absolutely stunning! — Mary didn’t hide her awe, studying the tiny, barely visible brushstrokes. — Victor, does anyone even buy your paintings?
— I don’t churn out stacks of canvases to sell at street markets, — he smiled. — Art’s not valued much these days. I work on commission. My website has enough of my pieces to show my styles, but I’d love more orders.
— Victor, would you like to help me in my workshop? — Mary asked, still captivated by his skill. How could she have thought poorly of him?
— What workshop? — he asked, confused.
— Oh, I make clay items—vases, pots… But my business isn’t doing great, probably because I’m no artist, so I paint everything one color, usually reddish-brown, — she laughed. — With your talent, we could make good money. Of course, half the sales would be yours.
— Sounds tempting, — Victor smiled. — I’m sick of freezing at the warehouse at night, so I’d love to try painting your work.
— Great. Shall we discuss it over tea? — Mary suggested.
Victor initially refused the items she brought, but when it turned out he didn’t even have a second cup, he gave in. He felt embarrassed that the landlords were providing everything, but Mary insisted it was normal. She told him about her workshop and showed her website with photos of her work. Victor immediately noticed that while the shapes were beautiful, they lacked color. They agreed he’d visit her workshop the following week to paint her pottery, which they’d rephotograph and list for sale. Until then, Mary couldn’t stop thinking about Victor. He was so pleasant, a great conversationalist, with such kind eyes… She didn’t notice herself smiling more, enjoying household tasks, and eagerly awaiting their meeting. George noticed a change in his wife—she seemed happier. Perhaps she had finally let go of the pain of not having a child, and life would be easier for her. He hoped to see that vibrant, joyful woman again.
At Mary’s studio, Victor didn’t waste time. He started painting her pieces, even buying special paints for it. Mary watched him work, amazed at his focus. He planned every stroke but worked surprisingly fast, as if he already knew how to decorate each vase or cup, adjusting patterns to their size. She was stunned at how much a touch of an artist’s hand could transform her work.
— What do you think? — Victor asked, pleased.
— Magnificent, — Mary carefully placed a vase with a firebird design to dry. — You’re truly talented.
— Thank you, — he smiled modestly. — Well, we’re done here. I’ll head home to work.
— What are you working on now? — Mary asked.
— A commissioned portrait. It’s nearly done, so you can come see it if you want.
— Yes, I’d love to. Let’s go.
Mary called a taxi while Victor packed his paints. She gazed at the refined young man, suddenly wishing she could shed 20 years of age. She had to admit it—she’d fallen for Victor from the first day. His tact, politeness, and careful demeanor had etched themselves into her memory. But she had George, who loved her, who’d been with her through life, supporting her in tough times. What was she thinking? She already had a family.
At the apartment, Victor eagerly showed her his canvas—a delicate girl with wheat-blonde hair and cornflower-blue eyes. Mary’s heart sank. Just as she admitted her feelings, Victor showed her a stunning beauty. How could she compare? Her eyes had faded, wrinkles had appeared, despite her efforts to care for herself. At 45, her youthful beauty was gone.
— Something wrong? Don’t you like it? — Victor asked, noticing her sadness.
— No, I love it. I just… got lost in thought. Remembering myself.
— I don’t understand, — he shrugged.
— She’s gorgeous. Not your girlfriend? — Mary tried to change the subject.
— No, not at all. She’s not my type, — Victor said, setting the painting aside.
— What’s your type, then?
— Well, I prefer brunettes, — he said thoughtfully.
Mary instinctively touched her neatly styled black hair.
— I don’t like overly bright eyes; they look odd. Plus, she’s barely 18. I’ve got a bit of a childish streak myself—imagine me with someone just as naive? — Victor concluded.
— Yeah, you’d probably be too carefree a couple, — Mary smiled.
— Exactly. Want some tea?
He’d practically told her she was his type. The thought robbed Mary of peace. At home, she quietly observed her husband. Did he love her? He sat watching football, beer in hand. Sure, he asked about her day and listened, but that was it. She didn’t want to spend more time with him. Unlike Victor, who showed her something new each time, was interested in her pottery, while George likely only suggested selling her vases to feign interest, to make her feel needed. In reality, he was content with her cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry. Mary shuddered at the thought of wasted years. Had she spent her life with the wrong man?
George didn’t understand what was happening with his wife. She’d become withdrawn again, spoke to him reluctantly, and hadn’t brought her pieces to his store. She said she and Victor were working together, waiting for results. Maybe the new responsibility was overwhelming her? She had to adjust to a new pace to match Victor’s painting. George decided not to bother her and let her adapt.
A month passed. George spent even less time with Mary. She was now certain he didn’t love her, only used her. She visited her workshop more, went to Victor’s, even brought wine for relaxed evening chats. Victor didn’t mind her company, and Mary felt he was subtly courting her—pouring more wine, calling her a taxi, always walking her out. She melted, feeling no one had ever cared for her like this. Meanwhile, George was increasingly absent, tied up at work.
Mary decided it was time to feel like a woman again. She called Victor from her workshop. They discussed business, then she suggested he paint her portrait.
— Sure, I can, — Victor replied. — What style would you like?
— Maybe the same as that ship you showed me first.
— Alright, but it’ll take time. Are you ready to wait?
— I’m ready, — Mary smiled.
— Shall we paint from life, or will you give me a photo?
— Why make an enlarged photo? Let’s do it from life.
— Got it. Shall we meet today?
— I’ll be there in a couple of hours.
— I’ll be waiting.
Mary hung up and hurriedly got ready. She was determined to bring her recent fantasies to life. She put on her best dress, did her makeup, bought a couple of bottles of wine, called a taxi, and went to Victor’s. He was happy to see her, as always. Mary suggested they have some wine before starting, but Victor shook his head, saying it was better after.
— Well, I’ll have some, — Mary shrugged.
Soon, she decided she was ready to pose. Victor went to get his canvas and easel, asking her to get comfortable while he’d adjust her pose for the composition. Without hesitation, Mary unzipped her dress and let it fall to her feet. Victor returned, froze, and stared at the nearly naked woman.
— What’s wrong? — Mary asked.
— I… I didn’t think you wanted such a bold painting.
— What’s the matter? Don’t you like me?
— No, it’s not that… Wait, what? — Victor raised his eyebrows.
— Come on, I can tell you like me. I like you too. So I thought…
Mary batted her eyelashes, but her smile faded.
— Oh, God, I’m such a fool…
— No, wait, you’ve misunderstood everything!
— What?
— I like you as my landlord, as a person! I can’t even imagine you as a partner, — Mary felt as if cold water had been poured over her. She instinctively covered her chest, her smile vanishing. — And you have a husband! God, have some shame!
— I… Oh, Lord, what have I done… — Mary grabbed her dress as Victor turned away. — I’m such an old fool… Thinking a young guy would like me… Then why all the flirting?! — she shouted, tears streaming down her face. She realized Victor didn’t love her, and she’d betrayed her husband.
— What flirting? Just politeness!
— You… You jerk!
— I’m the jerk? — he turned to her, shocked, but Mary slapped him. She was furious at him, at herself, at the world.
— Get out of here! I don’t want to see you here tomorrow! — she yelled.
— Fine, — Victor said quietly and began packing his things.
Mary fled the apartment and went home. The next morning, she returned to Victor’s, ashamed of her behavior. She hadn’t told George, feeling she’d betrayed him. She was confused, unable to confess to the man she’d lived with for 15 years about her near infidelity. Victor was gone, along with his things, leaving only a note on the table: “Keys with the neighbor.” A tear rolled down Mary’s cheek. She still loved Victor.
That evening, George came home from work. Mary felt awful, hadn’t cooked dinner, and sat curled up on the couch, staring at the TV. George approached her.
— Mary, is it true?
— What? — she asked indifferently.
— That you were lounging on our tenant’s couch in your underwear.
Mary’s breath caught. Victor! He’d called George and told him everything. That rotten kid.
— Who told you that?
— He did. And you know, I wouldn’t have believed him if he hadn’t mentioned the birthmark on your left breast.
Mary knew lying was pointless.
— Then why ask?
George sank heavily into the chair across from her.
— Well… Mary, why? What were you missing in life, tell me? — She stayed silent.
What was she missing? George cared for her, gave her gifts, looked after her… Yet she’d dismissed him and run to a young man. Why had she done it? Why?
— Silent, huh? Well, keep quiet then, — George stood and went to the bathroom.
— What happens to us now? — Mary asked.
— Is there an “us” anymore? — George replied with a question.
George and Mary divorced. He gave her the apartment where she’d betrayed him as a reminder of what happened.
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