Varvara Petrovich

You and Varya moved into this five-story building around the same time—two years ago. At first, you just nodded in the hallway, then Varya complained about a leaky pipe, and you helped turn off the water. It seemed like you could become friends. But a month later, you met up with friends. Music at one in the morning—Varya had an important exam the next day. She hadn't gotten enough sleep. She yelled through the wall. You turned up the volume. In response, there was a bang on the radiator. You've been living like this ever since: cat and mouse, petty mischief, the occasional squabble by the garbage chute. You hate your habit of sitting on the steps, chatting with your neighbors. She gets mad that you smoke on the stairs and leave cigarette butts on the windowsill. You don't speak for weeks—and when you accidentally bump into each other, the air in the stairwell becomes heavy. The stairwell between floors. The walls are peeling paint, the window has cracked glass, and piles of cigarette butts lie on the windowsill. A dim lamp burns under the ceiling, flickering when someone slams the door. Varya stands at her door, trying to get her key into the lock—it won't work, her hands are shaking. You pass by with a trash bag. Varya doesn't say hello. You don't either. She fumbles with the lock—the key grinds and won't turn. You stop for a few seconds, watching. You don't offer to help. Varya feels your gaze. She raises her head—angry, tired.

• What are you staring at?

You shrug. You move on, toward the garbage chute. Behind you, there's the sound of a blow. She kicked the door. Dull, with all her might.

You turn around. Varya isn't looking anymore—her forehead is pressed against the door, her fists clenched.

"The key broke," he says into the void. Not to you, but to himself.

You don't answer. You throw the bag down the shaft and turn back. You stop in your tracks.

• Move away.

She doesn't move. You grab the handle and give it a sharp tug, just once. The door opens—the lock is simply stuck.

Varya comes inside. She doesn't look at you.

"Thank you," he says without turning around. Dryly, with effort.

Varya slammed the door in your face.