His fists clenched and unclenched. His breathing and footsteps were heavy.

“Teach? Teach? Why do we have a gun in our home?”

“In my home.”

“In our home. It’s me that made a home of this bachelor den. And I am not having any guns here.”

“That’s for me to say.”

“Are you saying my opinion counts for nothing?”

“On this, yes.”

“I don’t think you care about my opinion on anything.” Maria reddened and went into the kitchen to splash her face with water. She returned to the bedroom, opened the makeup drawer, laid out her things on the windowsill, took up a compact mirror, and began applying foundation.

“Thank you for unblocking the drain and replacing the lightbulb.”

“ I saw the letterbox was open.”

“So?”

“What’s that about?”

“Go take a pot-shot at whoever did it. Maybe that’ll make you feel better.”

“There’s a war going on. I’m not going to tell you again, there is not going to be a debate about guns in this house. Why is the letterbox open?”

“What do you care? Nobody writes you letters anyway.”

“And they write you letters? Your insane fans from the morgue? Will there be any of them at the office party tonight?”

“You’re going too. You can see for yourself who keeps me company.”

“I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are. I’ve been saying that we’re going for the past two days. I need to be there, and I can’t go alone.”

“Why do you need to be there? What’s the point? Can’t we just spend a night in bed? Why are you so bent on keeping your distance from me?”

Maria shrugged and studied herself in the mirror.

“I’m going to drink today. You can take advantage of me later tonight.”

“What is that supposed to mean? Is that a joke?”

“Yes darling. It’s a joke. I’m not your sex doll. Look, you’re being unpleasant, just cut it out.”

“It’s how I talk, that’s me. And if you’d been through what I’ve been through, maybe you’d take it a little easier on me.”

“Darling, I’ve seen more dead bodies than you have. But I don’t keep guns in the cupboard or go around beating up the neighbours.”

“What’s going on here? What is this shit? I don’t have time for this. This is all so petty. None of it matters.”

“Everything matters. Every little detail.”

Andrei turned pale and ground his teeth. (An awful sound.) He recalled his therapist’s exercises. He briefly closed his eyes and opened them again, inhaled and exhaled.

“Everything matters? Is that what you think? We’re going to be at your little office party. They’ll be laughing, drinking, dancing, and all the while people are dying in trenches. Some fucker will come in his Mercedes, all dressed up and smart, telling everybody around the table about how he injured his knee playing tennis. But over there, on the front, someone had their leg torn off today. They’re in hospital, writhing in pain, trying not to complain. Trying to survive. And what I want to tell this fucker at the table is: ‘Why aren’t you on the front? You should be defending your country, you filthy animal. Instead, you sit there drinking and looking at me like I’m the idiot when I tell you that your problems are all meaningless.’”