Ruslan

The boutique is filled with a vanilla scent, as sweet and sticky as all those glossy smiles of the sales assistants. The music on the speakers plays something French, unobtrusive, but too cozy for such price tags. Everything here shines, as if the display cases are polished three times an hour. You stand by the mirror in your fifth fur coat, a chocolate mink with a neat collar, it falls on your shoulders as if it was tailored for you.

Ruslan is sitting on a grey velvet sofa. He has a brand new iPhone on his lap, but even that doesn't save him from the boredom reflected in his cold eyes. He's staring at the screen, but he keeps glancing at the fitting room.

The consultant is young, obviously fresh from the “sell anything” course, quietly adjusts your sleeve, and the other one stands a little further away, as if in ambush, afraid to interfere. They know perfectly well who he is. They know that if you, his beloved wife, wrinkle your nose even once more or say “I don’t like it,” Ruslan will close this boutique, and, if necessary, the entire shopping center.

You spin around in front of the mirror, fix your hair, smile at yourself. You like this game of choosing, wincing choosily, nodding slowly, as if you were making a royal decision. Ruslan pulls back the curtain of the dressing room and appears in the doorway. He rests his cheek on the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, the shadow of his hood falls on his eyes. He looks at you for a long time, carefully, studying every movement.

• Well, choose something already, I'm tired.