— Volodya? — I answer drowsily when my husband calls.
— So you like it, Vladimir Petrovich? — instead of him, a woman’s voice—deliberately tender—comes through the line.
— Yes, baby, don’t stop, — I hear Volodya’s response.
— And can your hen do that too?
— Shut up. Just keep going.
I’m seized by icy fear. After that there are almost no words—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 directly to me:
— So, did you hear, you old hen? Now move over. He’s going to be mine.
Twenty-five years of marriage—and through the phone, I witness his cheating with his own secretary. She demands that I give up my place. And I’m not going to cling to a man who has lied to me for months. Very soon it will become clear: without my support, he’s nobody—and he’ll try to convince me that it isn’t over yet.
But for us, it’s the end. And for me—only the beginning.