Mary and Greg got married fifteen years ago. In the time they had spent together, they managed to acquire two upscale apartments in the city center, but over the years, the spark between them had flickered out.
Greg owned his own hardware and construction supply store, and the family was well-off. This allowed Mary to spend her time doing what she truly loved: creating exclusive pottery.
She had completed professional ceramics courses and took great pleasure in crafting all sorts of pots, plates, vases, and even tea sets. It was hard to call her a successful businesswoman because few people in the city truly appreciated her craft, but she found buyers from time to time. Greg was simply happy that his wife didn't have to work; he actually enjoyed feeling like the provider and protector of the household.
About seven years ago, Greg and Mary had bought an apartment for their future child, but they never managed to start a family. Mary was diagnosed with polycystic ovary syndrome, making it extremely difficult for her to conceive.
She had withdrawn into herself, becoming distant. Greg never stopped trying to comfort and support her, but it was as if she couldn't even hear him. Over time, the sharp pain faded to a dull ache, but Mary's feelings for Greg had withered. She was used to her caring husband and enjoyed talking to him occasionally, but the passion she once felt was gone.
"What's on your schedule for today?" Greg asked, finishing his morning coffee.
"The usual," Mary shrugged. "I'll head to the studio and make something beautiful."
"Why don't I take some of your work to my store?" Greg suggested. "Especially if you make some decorative pieces. We get a lot of couples coming in. While the men are picking out drills or lumber, the wives are usually standing around looking bored."
"You think it would be a hit if they could pick up a nice vase while their husbands browse building materials?" Mary giggled.
Greg chuckled too and kissed her on the forehead.
"Exactly. So, make us lots and lots of vases."
"Alright," Mary smiled. "I've also been thinking... why let that other apartment just sit there empty? Let's rent it out. We can save the money for a vacation and get out of the city this summer."
Greg paused for a moment. "That" apartment was never referred to by any other name; Mary hated talking about it. After all, it had been intended for the child they could never have. Mary blamed both herself and him, thinking that if they had started trying sooner, things might have been different. Generally, the topic of "that" apartment was off-limits, and they certainly didn't need the extra money.
Why had she brought it up all of a sudden? On the other hand, the place was furnished; they could easily pick up a fridge and a few small appliances. And they hadn't been on a real vacation in ages—there was never enough time, and Greg's manager was always hesitant to hold down the fort alone. Thinking it over, Greg realized his wife probably just wanted to shake off her gloom and take a break from the city grind.
"Alright, honey, let's rent it out. Can you handle the listings and finding a tenant? I'll go buy whatever else the place needs."
"Of course."
Greg finished his coffee, kissed her cheek, and headed to work. Mary posted the ads on various websites and looked up a realtor's number just in case. It was painful to remember the original purpose of that apartment, but at the same time, the empty space felt like a constant reminder of their private tragedy. She didn't want it sitting vacant anymore, a place she only visited twice a month to clean and feel sad.
***
After finishing her chores, Mary went to her studio. She sketched several designs for elegant vases and flower pots, as well as some clay bakeware, and was just about to start throwing clay when her phone rang. It was an unknown number, and Mary immediately thought of the apartment.
"Hello?"
"Hi, I'm calling about the ad," a man's voice said, confirming her hunch. "Is the apartment still available?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Is it possible to see it?"
"Um, yes, certainly. There's just one small catch—there are no appliances yet, but my husband and I are buying everything necessary in the next few days."
"Well, I've got a kettle and a couple of pots," the man said thoughtfully.
"A refrigerator too?" Mary teased, but quickly checked herself. "We'll have everything delivered by the end of the week."
"Fair enough. But could I still take a look? To be honest, I need a place urgently, and I can survive without a fridge for a few days."
"Well, if that's the case..." Mary pursed her lips. She hadn't expected to find a tenant so quickly and felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for the little apartment. "Sure, you can see it. When would you like to?"
"Today, if possible," the man answered quickly.
"Okay, let's meet at the address around 6:00 PM. Does that work for you?"
"Yes, perfect. Oh, and my name is Victor, by the way."
"I'm Mary. Nice to meet you. See you then."
Mary hung up and wondered. Why was he in such a rush? It was nowhere near the start of the college semester, yet this man was willing to take a place without even a refrigerator. It seemed strange. She decided to call Greg and tell him about the meeting.
"Greg, hi. A man just called about the apartment."
"Wow, that was fast! That's great news."
"I guess... but he said it's urgent and he isn't even bothered by the lack of appliances."
"People have all sorts of reasons. Maybe he's going through a divorce."
"Or maybe he's some kind of junkie," Mary muttered.
"So, did you set a time?"
"Yeah, today around six."
"I'll go with you. We'll see what kind of guy he is. If we have any doubts, we just won't rent it to him."
"Okay. Well, see you tonight. I'll call you."
"Bye."
Mary returned to her work, though her peace was gone. she couldn't stop wondering who would need a place that urgently. Her thoughts were far from pleasant; she even imagined a fugitive on the run. Eventually, she got so worked up that she forced herself to stop thinking about it.
Greg had promised to go with her, and he was a good judge of character. At five o'clock, she called her husband and said she was ready. Greg told her he'd be at her studio in fifteen minutes and that they'd even have time for a quick coffee before the meeting. They did exactly that, stopping at a coffee shop on the way. Mary shared her fears, but Greg just brushed them off, assuring her he could spot a troublemaker a mile away.
A young man was waiting for them by the entrance of the building. He looked tidy but had dark circles under his eyes, likely from a lack of sleep.
"Hello, are you Victor?" Greg asked.
"Yes, good evening. You must be here about the apartment? I spoke with your wife."
"That's us. I'm Greg, and this is Mary. Shall we head up?"
"Pleasure to meet you," the young man smiled.
"Let's go."
Greg didn't see anything suspicious in Victor's appearance. He looked like an average, exhausted guy. Once they reached the floor and entered the apartment, Victor immediately took off his shoes to avoid tracking dirt on the floor and waited for the tour. Truthfully, there wasn't much to show.
It was a one-bedroom apartment with a balcony and a separate bathroom. It had a set of linens, a couple of towels, a sofa bed, a pillow, a wardrobe, a table, a washing machine in the bathroom, and a small kitchenette with a stove. That was the extent of the tour.
"Of course, if you take the place, we'll have the fridge, microwave, kettle, and some dishes here by the end of the week," Greg concluded.
"Yes, it's perfect!" The young man seemed almost thrilled. "I'm ready to sign everything right now."
"Hmm, and may I ask why the rush?" Greg inquired.
"Oh, right, I guess it looks a bit suspicious," the young man said, looking embarrassed. "It's actually quite simple. I'm an artist, and I moved here from a small town upstate. My neighbors at my old place are these 'trust fund kids'—he grimaced—constant noise, parties... I just can't sleep or work. I work nights at a warehouse to make ends meet, so I really value my sleep. It's so quiet here, no one screaming through the walls, and I can paint on the balcony without having to air out the whole place for hours. I just want to get out of there as fast as possible."
"Oh, I see... and here I was thinking—oh!" Mary gave an embarrassed laugh. She felt foolish for her earlier suspicions. "Well, I like our prospective tenant. What about you, Greg?"
"Yeah, seems like a responsible young man," her husband smiled. "You can move in whenever you like, and we'll draw up the lease in a day or two, okay?"
"Great!" Victor gave them his contact info, let them take down his ID details, and promised to keep the place spotless. Mary felt a wave of sympathy.
"You know what? Just move in today," she suggested, still feeling guilty for her doubts. "We'll leave you the keys and sign the paperwork tomorrow."
"That would be amazing," Victor replied.
"Greg?"
"Sure, why not," Greg waved a hand. "Make yourself at home."
***
On the way home, Mary explained to her husband why she had made the offer, gushing about how bad she felt for suspecting the poor guy. Greg just joked and laughed. Both were satisfied with the arrangement. By the end of the week, Greg had bought the rest of the appliances and delivered them to the apartment, checking in on Victor at the same time.
The place was immaculate. An easel stood on the balcony with an unfinished canvas, and Victor was just about to have pizza for dinner, offering a slice to Greg. In short, Greg's instincts were right: Victor was a decent guy.
A week passed, and Mary started worrying that they hadn't provided enough small necessities for their tenant. She decided to gather some things and pay him a visit.
"What are you doing?" her husband asked in surprise as he watched Mary carefully pack one of their many sets of dishes into a box.
"I was just thinking... how is Victor supposed to live with just one plate? And he doesn't even have a spare set of sheets..."
"He's a grown man, Mary. He can buy his own."
"Greg, really? Do we want to be seen as bad landlords? We have so much of this stuff just sitting around—look, three sets of linens we haven't even opened. I'll take him one."
"Masha, he has his own money for that."
"Are you really going to be stingy about it?" Mary crossed her arms.
"A week ago you thought he was an escaped convict," Greg teased. Seeing his wife's face redden, he added tactfully, "Fine, you're right. The kid probably doesn't have much. A young artist working warehouse shifts... he's likely broke. Take him the household stuff."
"Good."
Mary packed two bags with dishes, linens, cutlery, and various knick-knacks. On the way, she stopped to buy a box of pastries. Victor opened the door and happily invited her in, mentioning that a pizza was arriving in fifteen minutes.
"Still eating junk food, I see?" Mary said with a playful scolding tone. Victor was twenty years younger than her, so she felt comfortable speaking to him with maternal familiarity.
"I just never really learned how to cook," he admitted sheepishly.
"Is that a painting drying over there?" she asked, peeking toward the balcony.
"Yeah, want to see it?"
"I'd love to."
Victor led her to the easel on the balcony. It was a painting of a calm sea with a ship sailing into the sunset. Even though the subject was common, Mary was stunned by his style. Victor worked in hyper-realism; his canvases looked like high-resolution photographs.
"Wow..."
"Almost a month of work," Victor sighed. "This style is incredibly demanding."
"But it's absolutely breathtaking!" Mary didn't hide her excitement as she examined the tiny, precise brushstrokes that were barely visible to the naked eye. "Victor, do you actually sell these?"
"I don't paint a bunch of stuff just to sell it on a street corner," he smiled. "Very few people appreciate art these days. I mostly work on commission. I have a website where people can see my styles, but I definitely wish I had more orders."
"Victor, would you want to help me out at my studio?" Mary asked. She was still mesmerized by his precision. How could she have ever thought ill of him?
"At your studio? Doing what?"
"Well, I make pottery—vases, pots, that sort of thing. But honestly, I think my business struggles because I'm not much of a painter. I usually just glaze everything one solid color, usually a reddish-brown," Mary laughed. "But with your talent, we could actually make some good money. We'd split the sales fifty-fifty, of course."
"That sounds tempting," the young man smiled. "I'm sick to death of freezing in that warehouse at night. I'd love to try my hand at painting ceramics."
"Perfect. Let's talk it over over some tea then."
Victor initially resisted taking all the supplies Mary had brought, but when it came out that he didn't even have a second mug, he relented. He felt guilty that his landlords were providing everything, but Mary assured him it was how things should be.
She told him about her studio and showed him photos of her work on her phone. Victor immediately noticed that while the shapes were beautiful, they definitely lacked color and life. They agreed that next week Victor would come to the studio to paint her latest batch of pottery, which they would then re-photograph for the website.
In the days leading up to their meeting, Mary couldn't stop thinking about Victor. He was so pleasant, such a good listener, and his eyes were so kind, so... she didn't even notice that she was smiling more often, doing housework with newfound energy, and counting down the hours until she saw him again. Greg noticed the change in his wife; she seemed happier. He figured she had finally made peace with the fact that they couldn't have children. He hoped his vibrant, cheerful Mary was finally coming back to him.
***
At the studio, Victor didn't waste any time. He brought special paints and got straight to work. Mary watched him. He was so focused, weighing every stroke, yet he worked surprisingly fast, as if he already knew exactly how to decorate the piece and was just fitting the pattern to the clay. She was amazed at how her work transformed under a true artist's hand.
"What do you think?" a satisfied Victor asked.
"Magnificent," she said, carefully placing a vase decorated with a Phoenix on the drying rack. "You really have a gift."
"Thanks," he smiled modestly. "Well, I'm done here for now. I should head home to work on my other project."
"What are you working on now?" Mary asked.
"A portrait commission. It's almost finished, so you can come by and see it if you want."
"Yes, definitely. Let's go."
Mary called a cab while Victor packed his paints. She watched the sophisticated young man thoughtfully. Suddenly, she felt a desperate urge to shed twenty years. She was in love with Victor—she had to admit it. Since the very first day. He was so polite, so considerate; his features were burned into her memory.
But she had Greg. Greg, who loved her, who had spent his life with her, who had supported her through their darkest times. No, what am I thinking? she told herself. I have a family.
When they arrived at the apartment, Victor went straight to the canvas to show her his work. It was a portrait of a fragile girl with wheat-blonde hair and cornflower-blue eyes. Mary's heart sank instantly. Just as she had admitted her feelings to herself, Victor was showing her a true beauty. How could Mary ever compete with this girl? Her own eyes had faded, wrinkles were appearing; even though she took good care of herself, she was forty-five. Her youthful radiance was gone.
"Is something wrong? You don't like it?" Victor asked, noticing the shadow on her face.
"No, I love it. It's just... I was thinking. Remembering how I used to look."
"I don't follow," he shrugged.
"The girl is very beautiful. Is she your girlfriend?" Mary tried to change the subject.
"Oh, goodness no. She's not my type at all," Victor said, setting the painting aside with total indifference.
"And what is your type?"
"Well, I've always preferred brunettes," he said thoughtfully.
Mary instinctively touched her dark hair, which was pulled back in a neat style.
"I'm not a fan of bright eyes, either; it looks a bit off to me. Plus, she's barely eighteen. I'm basically a kid at heart myself—can you imagine if I dated someone just as naive? We'd be a mess," Victor concluded.
"I suppose you'd be a bit of a flighty couple," Mary smiled.
"Exactly. Anyway, would you like some tea?"
To Mary, it felt like he had practically told her she was exactly his type. The thought completely robbed her of her peace. When she got home, she sat and watched her husband. Did he even love her? He was sitting there watching football with a beer in his hand. Sure, he asked how her day went and listened, but that was the extent of his attention. She simply didn't want to spend time with him anymore. Not like she did with Victor.
Victor was interesting; he showed her something new every time they met. He was interested in her craft. Greg had probably only offered to put her vases in his store to fake an interest—to make her feel needed. In reality, he just wanted her to cook, clean, and do the laundry. Mary thought with horror about the years she felt she'd wasted. Had she spent her life with the wrong man?
Greg didn't understand what was happening. His wife had suddenly become withdrawn again, speaking to him only when necessary, and she still hadn't brought her products to the store. She claimed she and Victor were working together and waiting for results. He wondered if the new responsibility was stressing her out. He decided not to push her and let her adjust to the new pace.
***
A month went by. Greg was spending less and less time at home. Mary was now convinced that her husband didn't love her, but was just using her. She spent more time at the studio and visiting Victor. She even started bringing wine so they could talk in a relaxed atmosphere in the evenings. Victor didn't seem to mind her company. To Mary, it felt like he was courting her—pouring her wine, calling her cabs, walking her to the door. She was melting under the attention; it felt like no one had ever cared for her this way. Meanwhile, Greg was "staying late" at work more often.
Mary decided it was time to feel like a woman again. She called Victor from her studio. They talked shop for a bit, then Mary suggested he paint her portrait.
"I can do that," Victor replied. "What style were you thinking?"
"The same as that first ship you showed me."
"Okay, but that style takes a long time. Are you willing to wait?"
"I am," Mary smiled.
"Should we work from life, or do you have a photo?"
"Why use a photo? Let's do it from life."
"Got it. Shall we meet today?"
"I'll be there in a couple of hours."
"See you then."
Mary hung up and immediately began to prepare. she was determined to turn her recent fantasies into reality. She put on her best dress, did her makeup, and stopped for a couple of bottles of wine. Then she took a cab to Victor's.
The young man was happy to see her, as usual. She immediately suggested they share some wine before they started, but Victor shook his head, saying it was better to wait until after they worked.
"Well, I'll have some," Mary shrugged.
After a while, she decided she was ready to pose. Victor went to get the canvas and easel and told her to get comfortable; he'd adjust her pose for the composition once he was back. Without a second thought, Mary unzipped her dress and let it fall to her feet. Victor walked back into the room and stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the nearly naked woman.
"What's the matter?" Mary asked.
"I... I didn't realize you wanted that kind of portrait."
"What's wrong? Don't you like what you see?"
"No, it's not that... I mean, what?" Victor's eyebrows shot up.
"Oh, come on. I can see you like me. And I like you too. So I thought..."
Mary fluttered her lashes, but the smile quickly died on her face.
"Oh, God. I'm so stupid..."
"No, wait, you've got this all wrong!"
"What?"
"I like you as my landlord! I like you as a person! I can't even begin to imagine you as a romantic partner!" It was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her. Mary instinctively pulled her arms over her chest, her expression crumbling. "And besides, you have a husband! My God, have you no shame?!"
"I... oh Lord, what have I done..." Mary scrambled for her dress while Victor turned away. "What an old fool I am... thinking a young boy would want me... then why were you always so attentive?!" she screamed.
Tears blurred her vision. She realized Victor didn't love her at all, and she had just betrayed her husband.
"Attentive? It's called being polite!"
"You... you jerk!"
"I'm the jerk?" He turned back to her in disbelief, but Mary slapped him across the face. She was furious—at him, at herself, at the whole world.
"Get out! I want you out of here by tomorrow!" she screamed.
"Fine," Victor said quietly, and immediately began packing his things.
Mary ran out of the apartment and drove home. The next morning, she went back to the apartment. She felt sick with shame over her behavior. she hadn't told her husband anything, feeling she had already betrayed him. She was lost and couldn't bring herself to confess a near-affair to the man she'd lived with for fifteen years. Victor was already gone. The apartment was empty of his things, with only a note on the table.
"Keys are with the neighbor," Mary read. A tear rolled down her cheek. She still loved him.
***
That evening, Greg came home from work. Mary was in a dark place; she hadn't made dinner or even greeted him. she was just sitting on the sofa, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the TV. Greg walked over to her.
"Mary, is it true?"
"Is what true?" she asked tonelessly.
"That you were in our tenant's apartment half-naked on his sofa."
Mary's breath hitched. Victor! He had called Greg and told him everything. That wretched boy.
"Who told you that?"
"He did. And you know, I wouldn't have believed him for a second if he hadn't mentioned the birthmark on your left breast."
Mary realized there was no point in lying. "Then why are you even asking?"
Greg sank heavily into the armchair across from her.
"Well... Mary, why? What was missing from your life, tell me?"
Mary remained silent. Truly, what had been missing? Greg had cared for her, bought her gifts, looked after her... and she had pushed him aside for a boy. Why had she done it?
"Nothing to say? Fine. Keep your silence." Greg stood up and went into the bathroom.
"What happens to us now?" Mary called out.
"Is there even an 'us' anymore?" Greg replied.
Greg and Mary got a divorce. He gave her the apartment where she had intended to betray him—as a permanent reminder of what she had thrown away.
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