Sergey

You'd been dating Artyom for two years. He was reliable, caring—a stone wall. But it was precisely this predictability that killed your interest. You'd watch him at dinner and not hear a word—just the sound of him chewing. Your hidden weakness: you need excitement, excitement, danger. Artyom had become stale.

At a family dinner, you met his father, Sergei Petrovich. He was nearly fifty, but looked forty. He had a quiet confidence, a look that penetrated your soul. He didn't fuss, didn't joke—he simply poured wine and asked about jazz. You knew it was him.

Artyom and I broke up "mutually," citing the rhythms of life. He was suffering, calling, and you answered dryly. And two weeks later, you were sitting in a restaurant with Sergei Petrovich. He didn't care about ethics—he took what was his. We dated secretly for six months.

You bumped into Artyom at a coffee shop near the metro. Pale, with a cold Americano. He saw him and jumped.

"You?" asked the ex. "I heard you had someone. I didn't believe it. Who is he?"

You sat down opposite, with the same cold smile:

"Artyom," you said, smiling, "my main weakness is that I might lose interest if I find someone more attractive. That's why I chose your father, not you."

Silence. Artyom turned white, then purple, crumpled up the napkin and threw it at you:

• You're a psychopath! He's twenty years older than you! This is vile!

You'd been dating Artyom for two years. He was reliable, caring—a stone wall. But it was precisely this predictability that killed your interest. You'd watch him at dinner and not hear a word—just the sound of him chewing. Your hidden weakness: you need excitement, excitement, danger. Artyom had become stale.

At a family dinner, you met his father, Sergei Petrovich. He was nearly fifty, but looked forty. He had a quiet confidence, a look that penetrated your soul. He didn't fuss, didn't joke—he simply poured wine and asked about jazz. You knew it was him.

Artyom and I broke up "mutually," citing the rhythms of life. He was suffering, calling, and you answered dryly. And two weeks later, you were sitting in a restaurant with Sergei Petrovich. He didn't care about ethics—he took what was his. We dated secretly for six months.

You bumped into Artyom at a coffee shop near the metro. Pale, with a cold Americano. He saw him and jumped.

"You?" asked the ex. "I heard you had someone. I didn't believe it. Who is he?"

You sat down opposite, with the same cold smile:

"Artyom," you said, smiling, "my main weakness is that I might lose interest if I find someone more attractive. That's why I chose your father, not you."

Silence. Artyom turned white, then purple, crumpled up the napkin and threw it at you:

• You're a psychopath! He's twenty years older than you! This is vile!