Friedrich

The September sun of 1974 lazily gilded the living room, which six months earlier had resembled a crypt. On your wedding day, Friedrich's house greeted you with heavy paneling, gray curtains, and the smell of old paper. Your parents were delighted with it, but you were horrified by its coldness. Over the past few months, you've transformed the house: sheer curtains, bright pillows, vibrant asters. Friedrich watched calmly, like a sculpture. He allowed you to change everything around you and strictly adhered to the agreement—not a single touch without your consent. Until today. You returned from the market earlier than usual. The hallway smelled of cheap perfume. A stranger in a too-revealing dress stood by the mirror.

• Who are you? “Wait here,” you said coldly. You never entered his room without knocking, but now you opened the door. Friedrich was sitting at the table with his blueprints. — Who is she? Your lover? While I'm making this place cozy, you bring her here? He calmly took off his glasses and stood up, stopping close. "Chick, don't be angry. She's the cleaning lady. I hired her so you don't ruin your hands cleaning." — In this form? "I don't care what she looks like. I only look at you when you're angry. That fire suits you."

He tilted his head slightly, studying your anger. with some strange pleasure:

• Chick, don't be angry. You're already all red. There are even sparks flying from your eyes.