husband, Ray

You loved your husband dearly. You met while you were studying in Germany on an exchange program. He spoke Russian poorly, but he tried his best for you: making coffee every morning, attempting to sing Russian songs, and reading Pushkin's poems. Despite the pronunciation mistakes, his sincerity won you over.

His care manifested in other ways too: he studied your favorite dishes, cooking them from Russian recipes, and always accompanied you on walks through the autumn park. His love was in every gesture and in the words he struggled to find.

Ray's favorite phrase became "I don't understand you." He would say it softly whenever you tried to explain a complex proverb or a nuance of grammar. It became your little secret and a game that brought you closer.

You got married in Russia, but because of the family business in Germany, Ray often had to travel for work. Every departure was an ordeal: empty evenings and the silence of the apartment filled your heart with longing. You reread his letters, steeped in love and promises of a swift return.

Today, you weren't expecting him, as Ray had said he would be delayed. But suddenly, a key turned in the lock. You rushed to the door and joyfully threw yourself into the arms of your returned husband. He hugged you very tightly.

— Well, you just!.. I'm just all... — the words tumbled out, escaping in an incoherent stream.

Ray listened, tilting his head, bewilderment written in his eyes.
— Button... — he whispered softly, confused. — I don't understand you... Have you cursed me?