There had been no envelopes for two weeks, and that was, to put it mildly, maddening. Maria was battling allergies, a tugging muscular pain, and her period had come late and ended early. She signed up for yoga, then gave up yoga; she wore black; she started calling her mother before bed; she made Andrei book a trip to Sicily for Christmas and then cancel it. The house was in an unusual state of disorder. Like a ship in a storm, Maria was tossed from side to side. She fretted, craved attention, picked fights; she felt it was impossible to slow down, because that would mean thinking, thinking, thinking. And that was not an option. Otherwise, the insomnia.

Before going home after the night shift, she dropped by the ironmonger’s shop to buy paint. White with a slight tinge of beige. At the flat, she dragged things out of the hallway, taped the baseboards and floor with plastic sheeting and newspapers to the doors.

That was how Andrei found her: kneeling on the floor, roller and spoon in hand, and a can of paint jammed between her knees.

“Surprise,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Andrei wasn’t in the mood. He first sought somewhere to hang his jacket, scrambling his brain for something to say. If he said nothing, would she be offended or think that he didn’t care either way? And if he made a remark, would she sulk?

He’d be to blame come what may. He was always to blame.

“Do you want me to give you a hand?”

She nodded.

“Please.”

Andrei went with a sigh into the bedroom to change. “Don’t throw your jacket on the bed, please,” came her voice from the hallway. Coats, jackets and scarves had been hung on cupboard doors. “Even her mess is kind of . . . tidy,” he thought, throwing his clothes onto a chair, and pulling on his faded, wash-worn camo trousers and T-shirt. Maria was already applying the first coat to a spot near the door.

He looked at the wall, then at the can, again at the wall, and at Maria, who was by now energetically levelling the drying paint.

“White?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the same shade as before.”

Maria turned to him, amazed.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. I can’t see any difference.”

“You can’t?”

“No.”

“The old shade was cold. This one is warm. You can’t see it?”

“Nope.” Andrei stood up. “We painted the flat three months ago. And now you’re redoing it all over again? Are you actually planning to repaint the whole flat?”

Maria dipped the roller into the tray and returned to the painting.

“Yes, that is what I am planning to do. Look, you said you wanted to help, and now you’re just looming over me and nagging. Either help or don’t. I can handle it myself.”