10/14/2025
“Are you completely out of your mind?! Why did you wrap up dirty dishes for me to take instead of lunch?! You think that’s funny?! The whole office laughed at me!”
“Olya, I’ll wash them. Just later, okay? I’m completely wiped,” Maxim’s lazy, relaxed voice drifted from the living room, where he’d already settled comfortably on the couch in front of the TV. The sounds of gunfire and car chases from the movie blended dully with his words, turning them into background noise.
Olga stood in the kitchen doorway staring at the sink. It wasn’t just a sink with dirty dishes. It was a monument. A memorial to his unshakable principle of “later.” A tower of plates with fossilized grains of buckwheat and dark streaks from yesterday’s stew leaned precariously, like some surreal creation of a mad architect. Beside it, three mugs lay in cloudy water, their brown, coffee-stained rings etched into the porcelain. Forks and spoons, glued together by something sticky and sweet, rested at the bottom like a sunken treasure. Crowning the composition was a huge frying pan, its bottom coated with a thick, congealed layer of white fat, like an icy crust on a winter puddle. The whole thing gave off a faint, sour smell of neglected housekeeping.
They were his dishes. Exclusively his. Olga washed her own right after eating, almost reflexively. She couldn’t relax knowing a dirty plate was waiting for her in the sink. It felt physically unpleasant to her, like walking around in wet shoes. Maxim, on the other hand, was built entirely differently. He existed in another space-time continuum where “later” wasn’t just a word but a magical, boundless land to which any unpleasant chore could be exiled. And judging by the state of the kitchen, he was a very generous ruler, sending more and more subjects there every day.
At first she tried to talk. Calmly, then with hints of irritation, then almost sliding into ultimatums. The answer was always the same, delivered with disarming nonchalance: “I’ll wash them, why are you starting up?” Sometimes, when the pile became truly indecent and the house ran out of clean plates, he would, with a heavy sigh—like Atlas with the sky on his shoulders—actually go and wash them. He did it noisily, splashing water everywhere and clattering the dishes into the rack so that everyone in the house, including the cat, would know what an inhuman feat he was performing. And two days later, the story would repeat with mathematical precision.
Olga turned off the kitchen light so she wouldn’t have to look at the mess and went into the room. Maxim, sprawled on the couch, was engrossed in some action movie, his legs thrown over the armrest. His face, lit by the rapid flashes of explosions on the screen, was absolutely serene. He wasn’t bothered by the smell from the kitchen or her prolonged silence. He was in his comfort zone, in his own world, where problems fix themselves—or get fixed by someone else.
She sat in an armchair and looked at him. Not with resentment. The resentment had run out about a week ago, after one more promise left unkept. What she felt now was something else. A cold, detached fatigue, like metal fatigue. When you bend it back and forth for too long, it doesn’t just snap. First it loses its spring, becomes dead, limp. Something in her had died like that. The desire to ask, to explain, to hope.
She watched his profile, the way he absentmindedly tossed chips into his mouth, and suddenly a thought appeared in her head. Simple, clear, and terrifyingly logical. It wasn’t malicious or vengeful. It was just… fair. If “later” was his favorite time and place, why not help him organize it? In a more suitable setting where he’d definitely find a couple of spare minutes.
A faint, uncharacteristically bright smile touched her lips. Maxim, glancing at her between shootouts on the screen, raised an eyebrow in surprise.
“What’s up with you?”
“Oh, nothing,” she stood and went over to him. She leaned down and kissed his prickly cheek lightly. “Rest, darling. I’ll take care of everything myself.”
In the morning, as usual, Maxim tore around the apartment in search of a second sock. He was running late, and a mild irritation had already begun to boil inside him like water in a kettle. Olga moved around the kitchen with an unusual, almost theatrical calm. She didn’t reproach him, didn’t hurry him. She simply poured him coffee and handed him a heavy bundle wrapped tightly in several bags. It was weighty and clinked strangely.
“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the package suspiciously.
“Lunch,” she answered simply, with not a hint of trickery in her eyes. “I cooked a lot yesterday, so I packed extra for you. There are several containers.”
He snorted. The unexpected care after yesterday’s silence looked to him like a sign of capitulation. So she’d come to her senses. Pouted and that was that. Pleased, but without extra sentiment, he grabbed the bag, pecked her on the cheek, and shot out the door. The thought that his wife had finally gotten her head on straight warmed his ego all the way to the office.
At exactly one in the afternoon the office drones drifted toward the kitchen. The air filled with the smells of reheated food: someone had cutlets, someone a Greek salad, someone instant noodles. Maxim proudly plunked his bulky bag down on the table.
“Whoa, Max, what’ve you got in there, a whole piglet?” joked Vitya, the big guy from sales.
“My wife decided to fatten me up,” Maxim said smugly, untying the knot. “Says I’ve gotten skinny at work.”
Colleagues watched with curiosity. He unwrapped the first layer of the bag, then the second. And then that same faint sour smell from last night’s kitchen hit his nose. Maxim frowned, not understanding. He tugged at the edge of the last bag, and its contents thumped onto the table.
It was the dishes. Those very ones. A plate with petrified buckwheat. A mug with a coffee ring. The greasy frying pan. A puzzled silence fell around them. Vitya, who’d already opened his mouth for another joke, froze with it half open. Svetlana from accounting wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Then someone gave a nervous little snort. And the dam burst. First a soft chuckle, then a loud guffaw. Vitya laughed so hard the whole table shook, slapping his thighs. Svetlana let out shrill, squealing giggles. Even Igor, the quiet programmer who usually showed no emotion, was choking with laughter, covering his mouth with his hand.
“Max… is this… what kind of performance art is this?” Vitya wheezed between laughs. “Did your wife decide you’d wash up at work?”
“An original way to drop a hint!” Svetlana chimed in. “Mine would be sleeping on the doormat for that!”
A dark, heavy flush flooded Maxim’s face. He stared at the dirty dishes and the laughing faces of his colleagues, and the humiliation, sharp and hot like molten metal, scorched him from the inside. This wasn’t just a prank. This was a public humiliation. She’d made a fool of him, a lazy good-for-nothing, for the whole office to see.
He didn’t say a word. His movements turned abrupt, mechanical. He swept the dishes back into the bag, not caring that his hands were smeared with grease. The laughter behind him didn’t subside; it only grew louder at his silent reaction. He grabbed the bag like a gr***de and, without looking at anyone, flew out of the kitchen and then out of the office. He didn’t hear the boss calling after him, didn’t notice the surprised looks. His ears roared with the sound of their laughter and the pounding of his own blood in his temples. He got into the car, threw the bag onto the passenger seat, and floored the gas. He wasn’t going home to talk. He was going home to destroy.
“Are you completely out of your mind?! Why did you wrap up dirty dishes for me to take instead of lunch?! You think that’s funny?! The whole office laughed at me!”
Olga sat in the armchair in the living room as if she’d been waiting for him. She didn’t even flinch at his shout. She slowly set her book aside and raised an absolutely calm, cold gaze to him. That look, devoid of fear or feeling, enraged him even more than the act itself. He’d expected tears, excuses, hysterics—anything but this icy indifference.
“What is this?!” he growled, taking a step toward her and shaking the bag he still clutched in his hand.
“Dishes. Dirty ones,” she answered in a flat, toneless voice, as if stating an obvious fact, like the weather outside. “You said you’d wash them ‘later.’ I decided you’d have more time at work, since you couldn’t be bothered to do it at home for a whole week.”
She paused, tilting her head slightly. Not a muscle moved in her face.
“And no need for a lunch container—everything’s already ready. Just lick the dirty plates clean.”
The last sentence cracked like a whip. Maxim’s face turned into a purple mask. He couldn’t catch his breath; he stared at her calm face, at the faint, poisonous smirk, and something flared in his head. He no longer saw his wife in front of him. He saw an enemy who had coolly and deliberately humiliated him, ground his manly pride into the dirt in front of everyone.
“You little—” He couldn’t find the words. So he found a gesture. With a sweeping motion, pouring all the rage and humiliation of the day into it, he hurled the bag of dishes onto the kitchen floor.
There was a deafening crash and clatter. Thick porcelain plates and earthenware mugs shattered into hundreds of pieces against the tile. The frying pan rolled with a dull metallic clang all the way to the wall. In the air hung that same sour smell of week-old grime, now mixed with ceramic dust.
Even that didn’t rattle her. She merely shifted her gaze slowly from the wrecked kitchen back to him. And then he exploded completely.
In two strides he crossed the kitchen. His fingers, like steel pincers, dug into the hair at the back of her head. Olga didn’t scream; she only let out a short breath from the sudden pain. With a jerk he hauled her up from the armchair and dragged her to the kitchen, straight to the sink, where a couple of dirty spoons that hadn’t fit into the bag still lay forlornly. He shoved her face against the metal surface, right into the shards scattered across the counter.
“This is your duty! Here! Wash! Got it?!” he snarled into her ear, pressing her head hard against the sink.
Then he yanked her head up and smashed her face against the rim of the basin. There was a dull, wet thud. He let go. Olga slid slowly to the floor, clutching her face with her hands. From beneath her fingers, a thin dark thread of blood trickled down her chin and onto the white kitchen apron…
Continued in the comments.
