“Is that Pasha? Isn’t it, Love?” she asked her friend.
“—Dian…” she howled from behind.
Friends don’t cry when they’re having sex with their friends’ husbands, right?
“—If you don’t mind, I’d ask you to be quiet and let me stay in the apartment for about a few minutes—to talk to your husband when he comes out of the bathroom.”
The doorknob went down, and the freshly washed husband came out in a single towel, running right into me.
“Before your filthy mouth says anything, I’ll beat you to it and tell you that I’m standing here not to listen to something banal. I wanted to understand what you were washing there for so long: your hands or… your—”
“Dian, well you—” His voice sounded distant; his eyes were running, looking for something and apparently not finding it. “It’s…
“Two traitors—that’s what this is,” she turned around and walked to the door.