He walked into the apartment on Maple Street, suitcase in hand, his eyes carrying a guilty softness as he spoke gently:
— Darling, I’ve realized I was wrong. Please forgive me.
— Oh, come on now… — She raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. — Why are you asking me for forgiveness? Who am I to you?
— Who? — He sighed sadly, finally setting the suitcase on the floor. — You’re the woman I unfairly hurt.
— And so what? — she asked.
— What do you mean, so what? — He faltered briefly but quickly regained his composure. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was make amends. — Now I need to make it up to you.
— Make it up? — She smirked. — Is your guilt some kind of pet you can just smooth over?
— I don’t follow. — He was thrown off again. — What’s a pet got to do with it?
— Guilt isn’t a cat you can pet away, — she clarified.
— I don’t understand you.
He truly didn’t. Things weren’t going as they usually did. He’d leave, come back, she’d forgive him, and life would start anew. But now, something had shifted…
— What’s so hard to understand? — she asked. — I’ll forgive you, but only if you pay me… A lot of money…
— Hold on! — He looked at her skeptically. — What’s money got to do with this? I came back to you. All I need is for you to forgive me, and that’s it.
— Who asked you to come back? — she said with a strange smile.
— I don’t get it again, — he said cautiously.
He glanced around, disoriented, wondering if he’d walked into the right place.
— You’ve become so clueless. — Her unsettling smile lingered. — Did you have a blackout this past week or something?
— Don’t joke like that, sweetheart. — Her words were starting to irritate him. — I’m fine. Perfectly fine.
— Don’t call me sweetheart, — she snapped.
— Why not?
— It bothers me.
— Alright, honey, — he nodded.
— Don’t call me honey either, — she ordered again.
— Fine, love, — he replied hesitantly.
— And definitely don’t call me love.
— Hey, what’s going on here? — he finally snapped. — Why can’t I call my beloved wife my love?
— I’m not your wife.
She said it so casually, so lightly, that something sank in his chest.
— What do you mean, not my wife?
— My ID doesn’t say I’m your wife, — she shrugged.
— But we’re in a domestic partnership, aren’t we? — he said, suddenly unsure.
— Where’s that written?
— What is all this?! — His voice trembled like an offended schoolgirl’s. — We’re together. Anyone who knows us would confirm it!
— There was a partnership, but it’s gone. — That unsettling smile returned. — Washed away and drowned…
— What? — The floor seemed to sway beneath him.
— Why are you so surprised? — she asked. — You left me.
— I left, yes. But this whole week, I suffered without you. — His words dripped with sorrow. — And yesterday, I finally realized how wrong I was. Look—I came back.
— This time, you came back for nothing. — Her words sounded like a verdict.
— You’re saying…
— Exactly that… You came back, but I’m already a stranger.
Her gaze was indeed foreign. Completely foreign. But he refused to believe it.
— A stranger? — he said, clinging to the hope that she was just upset and wanted him to grovel a bit longer.
But her voice grew colder and colder.
— Just a stranger, that’s all! What’s so hard to grasp?
— A stranger to whom?
— To no one. But to you—I’m a stranger.
— Wait, so you’ve already got someone else?
— That doesn’t matter. You’re a stranger. We’re strangers now.
— What am I supposed to do? — he asked, lost.
— What do you mean, what? Pick up your suitcase, turn around one hundred eighty degrees, and… find someone else…
— Hold on! — he remembered. — Didn’t you say I could buy your forgiveness? With money… How much?
— That was a joke, — she said firmly. — Leave.
He hesitantly grabbed the suitcase and looked into her eyes.
— Maybe…?
— No… — She shook her head. — I’m a stranger…
He nodded and, at last, turned one hundred eighty degrees…
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