Vladimir has no problem spoiling his wife. Restaurants?—he’s already booking the whole place, backing up the romance with a group of armed men (how thoughtful of him). Jewellery?—oh, diamond mining in Yakutia is kept alive only by his monthly contributions of earrings and necklaces, which you beg for silently, just like that, pretending to smile sweetly. Flowers?—well, it’s easier to say there are no more places for flowers in this house.
No, Vladimir clearly excels at material gifts. A black card slipped into your fingers to assuage loneliness and longing; a black car waiting as you return from another shopping spree, admiring your new manicure. The bags of couture dresses and natural fur coats stand as apologetic gestures for his absence at the bedroom door.
It gets cold in the house at night. A nasty chill settles in a bed too big for one person, surrounded by things so expensive they begin to lose their value. Time, which cannot be bribed or bought back, drifts like a breakaway iceberg toward the ship called a happy marriage. Dinner is ordered for one; the television hums in the background to fill the space rattling with resentment. Unanswered calls, phone left untouched. Not coming tonight. Don’t call—over and over until you begin rehearsing the script of verbal squabbles, resenting the things you can’t change.
You’re just too pretty, and he’s a wolf let loose in a pen of sheep for fun.
Maldives, Spain, France (city of love? Seems he’s done some business there), Greece. All-inclusive hotels; strict orders not to open the door to anyone, not to answer the phone—and behind you, the inevitable broad figures of personal guards follow the click of your heels outside the hotel.
The resentment fades; a couple of days with your lover is all you need. The undivided, puppy-dog attention, the adoration of your presence, the stolen time together. But Vladimir vanishes again when the phone rings, returning in the evening with the scent of gunpowder and personal victory.
On a June evening, you declare loudly, sternly, with a suspicious squint—one he doesn’t immediately register—that you want on a vacation. It’s much more interesting to pull you closer, the back of his hand running down the line of your spine.
"Yeah?" He grins, wolfish. "And where to this time? All-inclusive again?"
"The mountains."
Well, damn him.
Heaven must part every window and door for him, because here he is—in thick fir forests, striding up, up, up with a heavy backpack. A mountain brook glides past, its coolness tempting, but the stones are slippery—and once again, he’s surprised by your choice, turning to glance at you.
Surprisingly, you seem satisfied.
Fine. Happy wife, happy life, huh?
Communication is completely cut off. No calls, no people—just you, him, insects, and the cold night descending. Only the tangible trace of smugness lingers on your lips, stretched into a smile.
"Careful," Vladimir sighs grudgingly, gripping your elbow as you stumble over a gnarled root.
A city beauty venturing into the wild.
A kind of remorse, really. There he is: pitching your shared tent on the damp ground, his knees dirty, as if ignoring his wife is more deplorable than murder in the eyes of God. The wind flutters the treetops, scaring away the occasional bird; an owl’s cry echoes in the distance.
"Scared?" he teases. "There are bears around here, too..."
A step closer—well, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? Solitude with your husband on a bed of nature (snakes, spiders, and worse). His finger presses under your chin, tilting you toward him.
"And a very big, scary wolf." Vladimir clicks his tongue wryly and shakes his head.
A threat to anyone who dares breathe a word about his willingness to bow so unquestioningly to his wife. Because, damn it, there’s a real thrill in satisfying your weirdest whim like it’s nothing.