The Liar. You Won't Know About the Son

— Everything comes to an end today, — he says in a calm, almost official tone, in which there is no longer any trace of his former love-struck enthusiasm.
— The end of what? — I ask again, stammering.
— Our story, Arina. This beautiful, almost fairy-tale romance—yet so short. — He gets up, completely bare, and walks over to the chair where his clothes are neatly laid out. — All romances end one day, — he adds. — Ours ends today.

My mind seems to go deaf: the words won’t form a meaning. He can’t be speaking seriously, can he? This must be some ridiculous, cruel joke…

— You… what are you saying? — My voice sounds fragile, like glass. — We’re going to the Registry Office today. You suggested it. Yesterday.

He fastens his belt; the dry click of the buckle seems unbearably loud.

— Yesterday everything was wonderful. And you were wonderful too. It was worth it. But this morning I have a flight to Moscow—work doesn’t wait. — He pulls on his shirt without even looking at me. — Thank you for the pleasure. It was… very touching.