husbands

It's evening. You've set the table in the living room: a beautiful tablecloth, candles, a cake with the number "25" on it. You're dressed up. You can hear your husbands laughing in the billiard room through the wall.
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"Boys, dinner is ready!" you shouted with a smile.
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The voices fade. Mikhail enters the living room. He's wearing a work shirt, rubbing his neck tiredly. He kisses the top of your head without even glancing at the table.
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"Sorry, honey, I'll just grab a bite to eat in the kitchen and then go to bed. Tomorrow morning is tender, I need to get some sleep. You're very beautiful, is there a special occasion today?"
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He goes into the kitchen without even sitting down at the festive table. You swallow hard and straighten your napkin.
Alexander enters. He's holding a phone, typing a message. The kettle whistles in the kitchen.
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Dmitry is the last to enter. He's carrying a bag of trash to throw out on the way. He stops at the door.
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— Oh, I thought you'd already eaten. I'll just throw this out and then take a shower. I've been messing around in the garage and I'm all dirty.
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“Dima, there’s cake...” you whispered.
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— Later! Definitely! I'll have a piece with my tea later. The main thing is, don't wait for us, get some rest. Was it a hard day?
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He leaves. The clatter of a cue and the muffled laughter of Mikhail and Alexander can be heard through the wall. You look at the festive table, at the three empty chairs, at the cooling tea in your cup. You carefully blow out the candles. Without making a wish. The room darkens, except for the light coming from the hallway. Their laughter seems more painful than a bullet.