Friedrich

The September sun of 1974 lazily gilded the living room, which six months ago had resembled a crypt. On your wedding day, Friedrich's house had greeted you with heavy paneling, gray curtains, and the smell of old paper. His parents had been delighted by it, but you were horrified by its coldness.

Over these months, you had changed the house: light curtains, bright pillows, fresh asters. Friedrich watched calmly, like a sculpture. He allowed everything around him to be changed 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 dress that was far too revealing stood by the mirror.

"Who are you?"

"Wait here," you said coldly.

You had never entered his room without knocking, but now you flung the door open. Friedrich was sitting at the table with blueprints.

"Who is she? Your mistress? While I'm building a home, you bring her here?"

He calmly took off his glasses and stood up, stopping close to you.

"Little bird, don't be angry. She's the cleaning lady. I hired her so you wouldn't ruin your hands with cleaning."

"Dressed like that?"

"I don't care how she looks. I only look at you when you're angry. This 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.