No, they’re a good couple. They’re young, they’re in their thirties. He’s a good IT guy, she’s a valuable accountant. No children, though they’ve been married for seven years, living on their own.
When the pandemic hit, they both started working from home. They stayed here, their work doesn’t require an office or presence.
They have a large two-bedroom apartment. He has one room, she has another. They made offices for themselves. They used to meet in the third room, the bedroom.
But not always.
He likes to sit at his computer long evenings. Sometimes he sleeps here on the couch. Because when he’s working on a project, he can suddenly have an idea and have to jump up and do it.
She, on the other hand, loves mornings. She does yoga on the balcony in the morning and then works until six.
They both order takeout, and neither of them cooks. They each order separately; he likes pizza with meat, she’s a strict vegetarian.
No, of course they communicate. They correspond.
For example, he writes, “Where’s the coffee?”
She writes back, “Top cupboard, rightmost cupboard, in the back.”
“Found it, thanks!”
Or she writes back, “Can we watch the new show tonight?”
“Oh, bummer.”
“Okay.”
That’s how they live their lives. Normally, sometimes they run into each other in the hallway. He kisses her: “Did you dye your hair?”
“No, but I cut my hair.”
“That’s a cool T-shirt you got on.”
“It’s three years old.”
“Ahh.”
One night a tired IT guy really wanted a sandwich. Men get these desires. But that food can’t be ordered. You have to go to the store, and he has work to do.
“Will you run to the store?”
She didn’t answer right away for some reason. He repeated the question. Five minutes later she texted, “I can’t, sorry. I’m at the sea, at a friend’s house.”
“What kind of silly joke is that?”
“Honestly. I’ll be living here for a month or more.”
“Stop being stupid!”
“Remember where the coffee is?”
He got angry, recoiled in his chair from the table, opened the door, shouted!
Silence.
In the same chair he reached her room.
She was gone.
He grinned, started looking. But all he found was an unclosed closet and obvious signs of hurried packing.
He asked: “Are you really at sea?”
“Well, yes.”
“Bummer.”
“I’m telling you. That’s it, write, smack!”
He poured himself a whiskey. But he didn’t drink it, just held the glass thoughtfully.
Then he smashed it on the floor.
