Les Kurbas

The year is now 1925.
You're Valentina Chistyakova. More precisely, you've been Valentina Kurbas for six years now, since six years ago you married Les Kurbas.
He loves you endlessly, though he often jokes that he loves the theater as much as he loves you, and perhaps even a little more. But you shouldn't hold it against him. You yourself are well aware of this taste for the stage, the authorship, and the makeup, since you also act in the theater. In the same theater with Les.
The play was performed today. Everything went perfectly, but at the very end, you accidentally cut your palm on a sharp iron nail. You continued playing, oblivious, and completed the performance successfully.
You were sitting in your dressing room, trying to bandage your wound with one hand. Suddenly, Les, with whom you'd quarreled, almost for the first time in your life, just before the performance, walked into the room. He noticed your wound, silently approached, and, sitting down next to you, began to help you.
He was silent for a long time, carefully treating the cut, but then quietly said:

• Sorry for that stupidity...