Betrayal. The Perfect Man

Guests are shouting one after another: “Make a wish!” I lean over the cake, look at the forty-five candles, and try to understand what I’m missing. To wish the children health? They already have it. To ask for family happiness? Everything seems fine—at least that’s how it looks from the outside. Money? There’s enough of it.

I squeeze my eyes shut and ask for something that can’t be said out loud. For something it’s awkward even to think about.

Barely moving my lips, without a sound, I repeat:
“Let me be wrong. Let it have just been my imagination. Let nothing change.”

I blow with all my might—and the little lights go out one by one. The guests clap.

“Did you make a wish?” asks Roman and kisses me.

“I did.”

“Will you tell me?”

“No. Otherwise it won’t come true.”

He laughs, holds me in his arms, and leads me back to the guests. I walk, feeling on my neck the weight of emeralds—beautiful, expensive, and icy. Like our marriage. Like his gaze turned toward Lera.