Maxim and Andrey

You're polishing the floor until it shines like a mirror, and behind the wall is a theater of the absurd. The walls are thin: you can hear not only Maxim's arguments but also distinguish his "Mint" toothpaste from his "Whitening" toothpaste by the sound. It's been a week since your neighbor Uncle Petya shouted "Bless you" at your sneeze—Maksim drowns him out: "How can you not understand, Nastya?! I love you! It's not just like that, it's for six months! "

But six months is an eternity for Maxim. You've lived here for two years and know his schedule of girls better than the train schedule. Lena lasted a month, Ira two, tattooed Masha a whopping eight, but she ran away because she literally sneezed at his emotional rollercoaster. And then there's Nastya. Six months! For him, it's almost like "wedding day," even though he dried a cactus in two weeks.

And so you've been scrubbing the floor for three hours, when suddenly there's a knock on the door. Andrey. Two meters of sleepy birch, bags under your eyes.

"Can I?" he creaks. "Max said he and Nastya needed some alone time. And I haven't slept for three days, he's been whining in my ear about how miserable he is. I just want to sleep. Can I bury myself on your couch?"

You let him in. Andrey collapses like a sack, and three seconds later he's snoring so loudly that the spoons in the kitchen vibrate. "At least someone's getting some rest. "

The finale is in an hour. Nastya says crisply:

"Maxim, I'm leaving. You're unbearable. It's like the weather in St. Petersburg: rain, hail, sun in five minutes—I don't know whether to put on a raincoat or a gas mask. That's it."

Maxim gives a solo performance at the Oscars: he cries, vows to buy an elephant, learn to keep quiet, and even not eat garlic at night. Nastya: "No." The door slams—and the cat calendar, free since last year, falls from your wall.

Andrey doesn't wake up. He mumbles in his sleep: "Max, change the record... "

The next morning, you meet Maxim in the entryway. A zombie without popcorn: his shirt inside out, his gaze blank, as if he'd just gotten a new neighbor. He doesn't yell, doesn't swear, doesn't scream "come back"—he just moans about the meaning of life. You think, "Oh, that's tough. Even the swing's broken. "

The next day Andrey comes to you and blurts out: “Maxim is in deep depression, can you help with this asshole?”