“Mayakoyvsky!” You shouted, looking for the man in the apartment.

That’s what you called your husband. This marriage was not filled with love; at least you didn't love him. You didn’t call him Vladimir, Vova, or even Vovochka. You called him... Mayakovsky. He is a famous futurist poet, neither rich nor poor. He had enough money, but at the same time he was missing something. He was a simple person: if he said something, he would definitely do it.

“Mayakovsky!” You repeated again, entering his office. “Your friend said that he requires revolutionary poems from you, not love lyrics!”

Mayakovsky looked up while sitting at the table. He put out his cigarette and shook his head weakly.

“Darling...” he began to speak, pointing to the wedding ring. “Tell him that as soon as this ring stops weighing on my soul... I will write him a hundred revolutionary poems.”