For nearly three decades of marriage, Elizaveta Petrovna had never once considered cheating on her husband. The very thought had never even entered her bright, devoted soul. But that day, everything changed.
Fluttering around the living room in her habitual coquettish manner, she stopped before a huge mirror, admiring herself. Like a fairy from an old tale, she addressed her husband with a playful question:
— Mirror, tell me, who in the world is the fairest of them all?
But instead of the usual compliment, Vasily Andreevich suddenly uttered something entirely unexpected:
— Life is reaching its midpoint. Our daughter will be getting married soon, and old age is just around the corner… Just like the tale of the old man and the old woman.
Elizaveta Petrovna froze. Her husband’s gloomy prophecy not only failed to please her but also sparked an inner protest. She tried to joke it off:
— As you wish, but I prefer to remain eternally young and beautiful.
However, the usually gentle and accommodating Vasily Andreevich showed an unexpected stubbornness this time. Irritably, he declared that their time had already passed:
— It’s time to yield to the young. You shouldn’t be gallivanting around shopping malls; you should be getting back to the basics, as wise people advise.
Elizaveta Petrovna looked at herself in the mirror in bewilderment: slim, tanned, wearing a white tank top and yellow denim shorts.
— What basics? What on earth is he making up now?!
Yet Vasily Andreevich, like a shadow looming behind her in the mirror, continued grumbling as he developed his argument. He said it was time for her to stop rushing around “like a student,” or else he would be ashamed in front of his friends and neighbors. Turning her toward him, he scrutinized her face, pointing out supposed flaws:
— Look at these “crow’s feet,” these bruises under your eyes, that crease on your neck…
Elizaveta Petrovna abruptly freed herself from his grasp and glared at him with her clear blue eyes:
— What is this? Why are you saying such things?
She turned back to the mirror, but it seemed to have lost its magical integrity and dulled. Staring back at her was a woman—tall, fifty-two years old, wearing a white tank top and yellow shorts. This was not the Elizaveta Petrovna she was accustomed to seeing. That woman lacked both the coquettish charm, the sparkling twinkle in her eye, and the youthful carefreeness in her movements.
— So you no longer find me attractive? — she challenged.
— Why “no longer attractive” right away? I mean this: it’s time to accept your age and settle down, — Vasily Andreevich concluded indifferently, as if speaking to a child.
— And what if I don’t want to age and turn into an old hag because of your pensioner views? What then?
— Then find someone younger—but not in my presence, lest I die of shame! At my age, as I now understand, a calm life is just beginning!
— Ah, is that so! Well, you know! — the usually patient Elizaveta Petrovna retorted sharply.
She went up to the bedroom, sat on the edge of the enormous bed, and became lost in thought. She had married as a young girl and loved her husband with an ardent, almost filial love, for he was 15 years her senior. And now, as the passion in their marital bed had “cooled off,” she didn’t make much of it, understanding that it was inevitable. The age difference, which had once been a source of pride and material prosperity, was bound to reveal its downside sooner or later. Elizaveta Petrovna was full of self-love. She became passionate about photography, attended workshops, and even got published in magazines.
But today’s quarrel with her husband had thrown her off her usual track. How dare he count every wrinkle!
She flung open her wardrobe, choosing an outfit. A light blue silk dress with lavender little flowers, white sneakers with lace inserts, and a yellow handbag became her choice.
Elizaveta Petrovna gathered her hair into a high bun, applied light makeup, put on a pearlescent pink lipstick, and a dab of perfume on her wrists that smelled of stormy freshness, sea breeze, and cotton candy. She was determined! The decision was still only vaguely forming in her mind. But in any case, Elizaveta Petrovna left her home and strolled along the alley to the embankment.
Meeting her, slamming a door behind him, came Maxim from the other end of the city. He had just quarreled with his fiancée. He had scolded her, mocked her, picturing her as a narrow-minded, childish admirer of “pink ponies” and a self-absorbed individual.
Now, as he walked through the yard, he couldn’t understand: was this break-up final, or was there a chance to mend things? What tormented him the most was that tomorrow the long-awaited meeting of their parents was scheduled. Now it was unclear whether to cancel the meeting or try to reconcile with his fiancée.
Tormented by pangs of conscience, Maxim went to the parking lot, got into his car, and began aimlessly driving around the city. He wanted to sever the knot rather than untie it, but no decision came.
Cruising around the center and getting stuck in traffic, he felt his irritation only growing. His phone rang incessantly, but Maxim stubbornly ignored the calls from his hurt fiancée.
He left his car near the embankment and sat at a table in a small café. Neither the food nor the drinks attracted him. Absentmindedly glancing around, he tried to picture his life 20–30 years from now. What would he be like? And how would his fiancée change?
His gaze wandered over the ladies at neighboring tables. Full figures concealed by flowing dresses, swollen lips, cold eyes, and deliberately raised eyebrows—all of these evoked in him a slight sense of disgust.
Maxim decided: whatever happens, happens for the best! If the phone rings again, he will answer and put an end to this relationship.
But then, unexpectedly, a tall, slim stranger sat down at his table. There was something special about her—a lightness, a freshness, as if she belonged to another world. Only in her light blue eyes trembled a barely noticeable sorrow.
— That’s the kind of woman, — Maxim thought, — I’d like to have by my side even in 30 years.
She, as if apologizing for her intrusion, smiled softly at him. Maxim ordered a bottle of wine, filled a full glass for her, and admired how she took a cautious sip. Then, setting the glass aside, she chuckled quietly.
Unexpectedly, Maxim began to speak about what troubled him: the fear of married life, the fear of binding himself to someone who, in years to come, might seem a stranger. He was afraid to realize the futility of such a bond.
The stranger listened silently, merely nodding. As darkness fell, the street became lively, and then quiet again. Suddenly, Maxim saw himself from the outside: a young man next to a beautiful, mature woman. But in her gaze there was an autumnal melancholy. He felt an urge to embrace her, to breathe in the scent of her hair, to press his lips against her earlobe adorned with silver rings, to feel her warmth.
— How about a drive through the city at night? Maybe we could go to the “Drunken Church”?
— Why “Drunken”? — she asked with a light smile.
— I don’t know, it’s on a hill, and its cross is tilted.
— You’re such a romantic, young man! Let’s go, though it’s a pity I didn’t bring my camera for night photography.
Along the way, he listened with rapt attention to her tale of passion for photography. She showed him photos from exhibitions and magazine pages on her phone’s screen.
When they reached the top of the hill, a cool night breeze enveloped them. Anna took a few photographs and then began to descend, stumbling in the dark. Konstantin caught up with her, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and held her tightly.
They returned to the city in silence, shaken and filled with a bittersweet tenderness. At parting, they exchanged grateful and embarrassed glances, after which their paths diverged forever.
On his way home, Konstantin stopped at a brightly lit kiosk and lingered long while choosing a bouquet. It seemed to him that the flowers were meant for that vulnerable and delicate stranger whose name he never learned. But in the end, he gave them to his fiancée, reconciling with her.
When she, having cried out her hurt and accepted his apologies, fell asleep fitfully, Konstantin stepped out onto the balcony. He greedily inhaled the cool August air, in which he detected the bitter-sweet freshness of that chance encounter.
In the morning, they had breakfast in the kitchen, discussing the upcoming meeting with their parents. Kostya talked about his parents, their tastes and views. His fiancée, in turn, described her own: a kind and reliable father and a flighty, enthusiastic mother.
— You’ll probably enjoy talking with your future mother-in-law, — she said with a smile. — You are very similar in your quirks.
By noon, they gathered in the cozy semi-basement of a country restaurant. The parents, as if recalling a Hollywood “happy ending” film, greeted each other with radiant smiles. The men ceremoniously kissed the ladies’ hands, exchanging long greetings and looking each other in the eyes.
Konstantin, blushing, remained silent. He couldn’t take his eyes off the stranger from yesterday—Elizaveta Petrovna’s future mother-in-law. She sat opposite him, with an expression both bewildered and mischievous, her sky-blue eyes shining as she guiltily bit her lower lip.
