Maybe you could go somewhere? Went fishing with your father, you always sit at home,” the mother looked at her son with concern, adjusting her apron.
“I’m not idle, I washed the windows yesterday,” he replied, looking away.
“I see, son. I’ve wanted to wash the curtains for a long time, but never got around to it. And you managed it yourself. That’s good, of course, but you can’t sit inside four walls all the time. You’re forty-five already!” she opened the refrigerator and placed containers of pickled cucumbers and jellied meat on the shelf.
“Forty-five…” he repeated quietly, as if realizing this fact for the first time.
“You should get married, have children. I want grandchildren,” she continued, closing the refrigerator door.
“Zhanna has children,” he muttered.
“I want grandchildren from you, not from your sister,” his mother cut him off, turning sharply towards him.
She fell silent for a moment, then, without looking at her son, asked:
“Did you go to the grave?”
“I did. Yesterday.”
“It’s been five years since Lena’s gone. Artyom, life will pass by, and you won’t even notice. You even have gray hair now,” her voice trembled.
“Mom, please stop. It’s unpleasant for me to talk about this.”
“I only wish you well. By the way, have you sorted out Lena’s things? We should clear up some space; they’re just gathering dust.”
“I can’t, Mom. I just can’t bring myself to do it.”
“Let me come over on the weekend, help you. We can give some things away, throw others out. It’ll be easier for you,” she looked at him hopefully.
Artyom silently nodded. His mother sighed with relief.
As he saw her to the door, he suddenly hugged her. Over the last few years, he had changed significantly: lost weight, grayed, became somehow frail. Now, in front of his mother, he was no longer a man in his prime but rather a tired, lost person, resembling a teenager with an adult’s face.
His mother visited him more often, brought homemade food, tried to surround him with care. After his wife’s sudden death, which happened just a month after falling ill, Artyom seemed to have extinguished. Once cheerful and active, he now barely managed daily tasks.
He threw away his old wardrobe without regret—clothes hung loosely on him, looking ridiculous. But he couldn’t touch his wife’s belongings. His sister took some things, but her figure and height didn’t allow her to take much.
On Saturday, his mother came as promised. She flung open the wardrobe doors, planted her hands on her hips, and froze, examining the contents. Then she opened another compartment with shelves and paused again.
Turning around, she saw Artyom. He stood in the doorway, pale, with a vacant look, as if watching something he couldn’t stop.
His mother’s heart beat faster; she quickly grabbed a few homemade cardigans and robes, packed them into a bag, and handed them to her son.
“Here, take this to the trash bins, hang it on the side,” she said, trying to speak calmly.
She intentionally sent Artyom to sort the remaining items without him. He silently put on his shoes, took the bag, and left the apartment.
“And grab some milk from the store, I’ll make some pancakes,” she called after him.
Outside, Artyom pulled out a pack of ci.g.arettes. The autumn breeze crept under his jacket, making him shiver. He put the pack back in his pocket and headed to the trash bins. Remembering his mother’s words, he didn’t throw away the bag, but carefully hung it on the handle of the bin. The store was not far, just a five-minute walk.
Returning home, Artyom stopped at the entrance, reached for his ci.g.arettes again. At that moment, he noticed a woman at the trash bins. She opened the bag he had left and began examining the clothes. She pulled out one of the cardigans, straightened it, and looked at it attentively.
Artyom suddenly burst into a coughing fit. He coughed so violently that the woman turned around, frightened, folded the cardigan, and stepped away from the bin, as if caught doing something indecent.
When Artyom entered his apartment, his mother had already finished cleaning. Neatly folded bags and sacks stood in the corridor.
“I’ve arranged with a woman; she’ll take what’s in good condition, and the rest we’ll send to the village,” his mother explained, taking the bag of milk from him.
Artyom silently nodded.
A week passed, but the bags remained in the corridor, as if unwilling to leave the apartment. One day, Artyom, as usual, went out to the courtyard to smoke. His wife had disliked the smell of tobacco, so he always smoked outside. Five years ago, after her departure, he started smoking again.
The courtyard was quiet and almost empty. A neighbor walked by with his dog, then an old lady from the neighboring entrance. Artyom stubbed out his cigarette and threw the butt into the bin.
At that moment, he noticed a woman passing by. She was wearing his wife’s cardigan. Lena disliked throwing away old things, always finding a way to fix or decorate them. On this cardigan, where there had once been a hole, she had embroidered poppies. Against the black background, they looked bright and unusual.
The woman slowed down as she passed the trash bins. She was fragile, petite, and from the back, she reminded him of Lena. Only her hair was short and dark. Artyom couldn’t take his eyes off her. He looked at her legs—just as graceful as his wife’s.
“Hello,” he called out to her, blocking her path.
“Hello,” she answered, not raising her eyes.
“I have more things, good ones. You can take them if you need.”
The woman blushed, clearly embarrassed. She tried to bypass him, but Artyom didn’t back down.
“Did you see me at the trash bin?” she finally raised her eyes and asked.
“That’s my wife’s cardigan,” he simply stated.
She froze, not knowing what to respond.
“Apartment fifty-three,” Artyom added. “You can come with someone if you’re afraid.”
The woman was flustered, but after a moment, she firmly replied:
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Well, that’s good,” Artyom didn’t ask anything else. He turned and headed to the entrance. The woman, a bit embarrassed, followed him.
At the doorstep of the apartment, she hesitated, not knowing how to behave.
“Do you live nearby?” Artyom asked, pondering how best to hand over the items.
“Yes, in the next building,” she replied, slightly lowering her eyes.
Artyom hoisted a large sack over his shoulder and tucked another, smaller one under his arm.
“Let’s go, we’ll make two trips. Don’t worry, I’ll carry everything,” he said, trying to sound confident.
The woman grabbed a small bag and followed him.
“I’m Marina,” she introduced herself, opening the entrance door.
“Artyom,” he replied briefly.
It was dark in the corridor of her apartment.
“The lightbulb is burnt out,” Marina apologized, heading to the far room. “I’m renting here.”
Artyom looked around. A tiny room with worn wallpapers, a fold-out sofa against the wall, an old desk, and a single chair. In the corner stood a two-door wardrobe.
“Here,” Marina pointed to a free spot by the wall.
Artyom noticed children’s clothes and asked before leaving:
“Do you have children?”
“Yes, a daughter. I’ve placed her in daycare, and I work there as a cleaner,” she answered.
“I see.”
“We recently moved. We were robbed at the last apartment, had to leave. Good thing they let us in here without a prepayment,” Marina added.
“Got it,” Artyom looked into her gray, somewhat sad eyes and felt his own mood grow heavier.
When they went for the second sack, Marina suddenly said:
“Say thank you to your wife, you’ve helped me a lot!”
“My wife’s been gone for five years, she was sick,” he calmly replied.
Marina fell silent. An awkward silence hung in the air. They walked in silence, and only at her entrance did she finally say:
“Thank you!”
“Don’t mention it,” Artyom replied. “I would have thrown it out anyway, but it’s useful to you. By the way, what shoe size are you?”
“Size thirty-six,” she lowered her eyes again, seemingly embarrassed.
“Good. Come by tomorrow, I’ll prepare some shoes, you’ll need to try them on. Does three o’clock work for you?”
“Yes, of course, Artyom,” she nodded.
He left, but all the way home he thought: “Why did I do that? I’ve never noticed such behavior in myself.” At first, he thought he saw something of Lena in Marina. But, other than fragility and short stature, there was nothing in common. Lena was energetic, vivid, while Marina was quiet and a bit lost. Yet, he felt compelled to do something simple, but important, for her.
The next day, his mother came over. She paced the corridor, slightly grumbling:
“You could have at least called, warned me that there were no clothes left. How am I supposed to look people in the eye now?”
“Call and tell them there are no clothes left. They blocked my way for a week, I… threw them out,” Artyom lied.
“Why? There were good clothes there! Well, I’m not mad. Want me to cook something?” she asked, softening.
“No, thanks,” he looked at his watch. “Mom, I have to go soon.”
She got ready to leave, but lingered in the doorway, sharing the latest news. When she finally opened the door, Marina stood there, holding a baking tray neatly wrapped in a towel.
“Hello,” she timidly said, standing on the threshold.
“Hello,” replied Artyom’s mother, throwing a questioning look at her son.
Artyom shifted his gaze from his mother to Marina, feeling the tension rise.
“I brought a pie to treat you,” Marina explained, slightly raising her hand with the tray.
His mother looked again at her son, then at Marina, and decided it was too early to leave.
An awkward silence settled at the kitchen table, lasting almost ten minutes.
“And where did you and Artyom meet?” his mother finally asked, turning to Marina.
“Near the entrance, at the trash bins,” Artyom unexpectedly answered for her. “Marina has a daughter, they were robbed, so they’ll move in with me… today.”
Marina and his mother simultaneously opened their mouths, hearing this. Even for Artyom, his words were a surprise—he clearly hadn’t planned such a statement.
“A wife from the trash bin?” his mother raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Artyom simply replied.
His mother waited for an explanation, but her son remained silent. Marina too, staring into her tea cup, dared not speak.
The silence hung over the table again.
“Mom, are you going home?” Artyom finally asked.
“Yes-yes,” his mother hurried, hoping that her son would explain everything in the corridor. But Artyom remained silent.
“Mom, this woman needs help, I’m just helping. What’s the big deal?”
“Nothing, son. The main thing is that she’s decent,” his mother sighed and left.
As soon as the door closed, Marina quickly got ready.
“I hope that was a joke about moving in?” she asked, looking at Artyom.
“Why not?” he replied with a question.
“Is your mother pressuring you to get married?” Marina guessed.
“Right. But… I just wanted to help you.”
“Thank you, I can manage on my own,” Marina opened the door. “Thank you for everything, Artyom.”
The next week, Artyom spent in a strange state. Nothing bad happened, but he couldn’t shake off a sense of guilt. He decided to apologize.
At the flower shop, he chose a beautiful bouquet, then bought fruits and sweets at the supermarket. Standing in front of Marina’s apartment door, he hesitated for a long time, pondering what to say.
“She’s no longer here, I evicted the tenant,” he heard behind him.
A woman in her fifties approached the door and began to open it.
“Evicted her? How?” Artyom was surprised.
“Just like that, Ludka didn’t pay for two months. So I evicted her. Too many suitors were coming around, no need to wear out the doorstep.”
“Marina? Are you sure?”
“Ah, you mean Marina. I thought you were talking about Ludka. Then come in, she’ll be back soon, she’s at the store.”
Artyom entered. The corridor was dark, as last time.
“Do you have a stool?” he asked.
The woman silently brought a stool from the kitchen.
“I brought a lightbulb,” Artyom explained, showing the box.
“Look at that, a handyman,” she smiled. “It’s the first time a man came to my place and decided to change a lightbulb himself. Want some tea?”
“I’ll have some,” Artyom agreed, placing the bag of groceries on the table.
The woman looked out the window and shouted:
“Girls, come home, time for tea!”
A few minutes later, the door flung open, and two girls rushed into the kitchen. One was about five, the other, clearly the owner’s daughter, was older and larger.
“Help yourselves,” Artyom took out the sweets and spread them on the table.
The girls, without hesitation, grabbed a couple of candies and immediately ran away.
“And ‘thank you’?” the owner called after them.
“Thank you, uncle!” came from another room.
“Tell me, how much does Marina owe you for the room?” Artyom asked, turning to the woman.
“Why do you care?” she was surprised.
“I want to pay.”
“Are you from the tax office?”
“No,” Artyom smiled.
“Five thousand. I understand she has no money, especially with a child.”
“Here,” Artyom placed a five-thousand-ruble note on the table.
“Did you take a liking to Marina?” the owner asked slyly.
Artyom shrugged.
“I don’t really know her, but I offended her in front of my mother, and I feel awkward.”
“What did you do that you paid for her room?”
“I said she would live with me, and that we met at the trash bin,” he confessed.
The owner laughed. Loudly, contagiously.
“You really go straight to the point.”
“Marina’s good, real. She’d make an excellent wife. Her husband used to beat her, that’s why she ran away from him. She’s been wandering for a year. If you’re not serious about her, take the money and go. She still needs to recover from everything, not jump into new relationships.”
Artyom nodded.
“I understand. My wife died five years ago. I wasn’t planning on serious relationships until now, I hadn’t looked at other women. But somehow, it just happened.”
“Ah, well then that’s fine. Court her, I don’t mind.”
Soon Marina returned.
“Galina Sergeyevna, are the girls home? I bought them juice.”
“They’re outside, Marin. Come in, you have visitors. I’ll go sit with the girls outside, get some air.”
Marina, slightly frightened, entered the kitchen.
“Artyom,” she exhaled, seeing him.
“Hello, this is for you,” he handed her the flowers.
“They’re beautiful, thank you.”
“I wanted to apologize for what happened last time.”
“I forgive you,” she smiled.
“Great. I also brought this, the girls already had some,” Artyom awkwardly pointed to the table.
“Sit down, have some tea, I’ll be right back,” said Marina, leaving the kitchen.
A few minutes later, she returned, dressed in a blue dress that suited her very well. She filled a vase with water and placed the bouquet in it.
“They smell amazing,” she noted.
“Yeah,” Artyom agreed. “I want to invite you on a date tomorrow.”
“A real date?” Marina squinted.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Then let’s meet at the trash bin at eight.”
Artyom looked at her in confusion.
“It’s more convenient for me there, I’ll come from work,” she explained.
Artyom smiled.
“Tomorrow at eight at the trash bin. Agreed.”
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.