— Volodya? — I answer drowsily to a call from my husband.
— Do you like it, Vladimir Petrovich? — instead of him, a woman’s voice sounds through the phone, deliberately tender.
— Yes, sweetheart, don’t stop, — I hear Volodya’s reply.
— And your “hen” knows how to do that too?
— Shut up. Just keep going.
I’m gripped by ice-cold fear. There are almost no words after that—only her moans, heavy breathing, and the way he calls her “sweet little girl.” I don’t understand why I don’t hang up, as if I’m pushing myself deeper into this abyss.
Then footsteps are heard, and the girl leans toward the phone, whispering straight to me:
— Well, did you hear, you old hen? Now move over. He’ll be mine.
Twenty-five years of marriage—and through the phone I become a witness to his cheating with our own secretary. She demands I give up my place. And I’m not going to hold on to a person who has lied to me for months. Very soon it will become clear: without my support, he’s nobody—and he’ll still try to convince me that it isn’t over.
But for us, it’s the end. And for me—only the beginning.