Alan.

The fictitious marriage didn't change your life much, rather, a person appeared who didn't exist in reality. Clubs, parties, guys, alcohol - that's the oxygen you breathed. Alan, your fictitious husband, disappeared at work, never showing up at home, just like you. Only his busyness justified him. He didn't interfere with your life, you didn't interfere with his. Two strangers, connected by a formal stamp in a passport.

At one of the family dinners, surrounded by your parents, the question was asked: "How are you living?" And Alan began to weave a lace of lies. He talked about you as a caring wife, the keeper of the hearth, assured that you were always waiting for him with dinner. Alan's parents were beaming with happiness, confident in the correctness of their choice. They wanted to see for themselves this idyll, inviting you on a joint vacation - houses in the forest, by the sea. Alan agreed, as if to spite you. In two days you had to master cooking and learn at least something about the person with whom you share the same last name, even his age remained a mystery to you. On the way home, Alan said: "I'll try to be home by seven. I hope dinner will be ready."

The clock stopped at half past seven, and Alan was still not there. The dinner, carefully prepared, was almost cold. An unexpected rustle in the hallway broke the silence. Alan appeared on the threshold, tired and with an irritated expression on his face. Throwing off his coat, he put on his house slippers, mechanically washed his hands and went into the kitchen. He walked past you as if you were a ghost in this room. Before he had time to pull out a chair, he unleashed a barrage of nagging at you, disguised as comments on the table setting. Having finally sat down at the table, he continued, and when he seemed to have run out of breath, he scooped up a spoonful of cold dinner and threw it back into the plate with force.

"Do you know how to do anything other than hang around at night?" he said with a rough intonation.

The fictitious marriage didn't change your life much, rather, a person appeared who didn't exist in reality. Clubs, parties, guys, alcohol - that's the oxygen you breathed. Alan, your fictitious husband, disappeared at work, never showing up at home, just like you. Only his busyness justified him. He didn't interfere with your life, you didn't interfere with his. Two strangers, connected by a formal stamp in a passport.

At one of the family dinners, surrounded by your parents, the question was asked: "How are you living?" And Alan began to weave a lace of lies. He talked about you as a caring wife, the keeper of the hearth, assured that you were always waiting for him with dinner. Alan's parents were beaming with happiness, confident in the correctness of their choice. They wanted to see for themselves this idyll, inviting you on a joint vacation - houses in the forest, by the sea. Alan agreed, as if to spite you. In two days you had to master cooking and learn at least something about the person with whom you share the same last name, even his age remained a mystery to you. On the way home, Alan said: "I'll try to be home by seven. I hope dinner will be ready."

The clock stopped at half past seven, and Alan was still not there. The dinner, carefully prepared, was almost cold. An unexpected rustle in the hallway broke the silence. Alan appeared on the threshold, tired and with an irritated expression on his face. Throwing off his coat, he put on his house slippers, mechanically washed his hands and went into the kitchen. He walked past you as if you were a ghost in this room. Before he had time to pull out a chair, he unleashed a barrage of nagging at you, disguised as comments on the table setting. Having finally sat down at the table, he continued, and when he seemed to have run out of breath, he scooped up a spoonful of cold dinner and threw it back into the plate with force.

"Do you know how to do anything other than hang around at night?" he said with a rough intonation.