“Will you pay?” Lyudmila didn’t even touch the card.
“Just take it.”
This is insurance.
In case a brick or something falls on your head tomorrow.
Lyudmila pulled out the card and felt the sharp edge pinch her palm.
Not out of gratitude – she just wanted the man to disappear as quickly as possible.
The card sank into the deepest compartment of his wallet, behind old notebooks and plumbers’ business cards.
Lyudmila swore: she would rather starve to death than touch this “gift.”
Two years have passed like chewing gum.
Lyudmila exchanged a spacious apartment on Vasilyevsky Island for a dilapidated one-room apartment in Kupchino.
On the fifth floor, the elevator always smelled of old plastic and mold, and from the window you could only see the gray side wall of the neighboring panel.
He worked in an archive.
His salary was enough for his porridge, paying bills, and rare little pleasures like a simple hand cream.
Viktor’s business card lay in his wallet like a silent reproach.
Sometimes, when the store was a few rubles short of plain butter, he would feel for the silver rim, but it would immediately return to his hand.
All he had left was pride.
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