One morning, while the sky still wore
The shade of spoons left in a drawer,
Mrs L. — composed, if rather keen —
Noticed something odd. Obscene,
In fact.

Her husband’s cheek — once softly blessed
With a dimple, modestly expressed —
Was bare.
A flat and dimple-less expanse
Where once her gaze would often glance.

“Where’s your dimple, love?” she said,
Cradling oats and coffee-bread.
He frowned — moustache beneath his nose —
As though the answer might disclose
Itself through grooming.

“Which dimple’s that?” he dared reply,
With sleepy brow and wary eye.
As if he didn’t know full well
The very place her kisses fell.

It used to sit — just here — she swore,
A quiet dent she once adored.
Where sunshine danced and secrets slept,
And once — she swears — a tear had wept.

Now gone.

Just bristles. Trimmed with care,
Still scented faintly of “don’t you dare.”
The dimple lost. And with it, doubt —
Was this the same man, inside out?

She watched him more in days that passed.
The dimple gone, her questions vast.
His ‘tache, unchanged, looked honest still —
But dimples rarely leave at will.

And then, one morning, just like that,
It reappeared — both shy and flat.
He smiled, a little off, but true —
The dimple twitched, and there it grew.

“Where’ve you been?” she half accused.
But dimples don’t explain their moods.
It only deepened — small, polite —
As if to say, “He slept all right.”

Since then she checks. Each morning, neat:
Moustache? In place. Dimple? Complete.
And if it's gone — she keeps in mind:
Something’s brewing. Or he’s lied.

But all was well... until that day
She caught her own reflection’s sway —
And found, beneath her sleeping frown,
A moustache growing. Soft and brown.

A. wasn’t one to mince her words. Fierce, quick-tempered, loyal to the bone — the sort who once played handball, and could silence a room with a single look. These days, she stuck to peppermint tea and the occasional passive-aggressive text, often punctuated with “...” and a well-placed fine then.

Her husband, V., was the quiet sort. Kind, in that maddeningly detached way. Spoke in half-sentences, disappeared into the shed when emotions flared, and claimed he was “thinking” whenever things got awkward — which, frankly, was often.

Then one morning, A. woke up and noticed her right index finger had vanished.

Not broken. Not bandaged. Just... gone. Like it had got fed up and walked off in the night.

— Have you seen my finger? — she asked, holding up her hand as if she'd misplaced her keys.
— Have you checked the bedside table? — V. said, without even looking up from the crossword.
— Oh yes, darling, it’s probably nestled next to my dignity and your listening skills.

She glared. He blinked. Back to business as usual.

The days ticked by. She managed — stirred tea with her pinky, tapped out angry messages with her thumb, gestured like an arthritic conductor. But something in her simmered.

Because she’d been building up to something. Something final.

You know the sort — the big conversation. The “we need to talk”, the emotional hand grenade with the pin already halfway out. She had the whole thing rehearsed. Words sharp as cutlery. Tone set to devastating but controlled.

And when the moment came — she raised her hand, ready to metaphorically pull the trigger...

Nothing.

No finger.
No bang.
Just her, stood there with a half-formed point and a face full of steam.

V. looked up, calm as anything, and said:

— I think I saw your finger near the mirror. Might’ve slipped off while you were rehearsing all those dramatic pauses.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him with a cushion.

Since then, she’s kept the finger in her coat pocket — not for pointing, but just to remind herself: sometimes, not saying it is the louder choice.

And V.?
Well, he’s started coming back inside when there’s shouting. Even makes the tea now — once in a while, unasked.

Мы как две школьницы
я - прилежная
а ты одеваешь пижаму в форме птицы
после прыгаешь с крыши
исходов будет немного

Ну а меня
будут дальше насиловать
старики
в туалете
каждый день
после уроков

Но я буду терпеть
как русский
как христианин

We cut one another
Down to the very flesh
While we miss each other
Deep inside our bones

Isn’t that ironic?

When you express yourself,
The minute the thoughts come out,
That's when the guns come out;
YEAH, BABY! COME GET SOME!
I'M EAGER FOR BATTLE
AND WILLING TO BE A SOLDIER!

MARCHING ORDERS, MADAM!
AT YOUR WORD, SIR!

IF I CAN'T DO IT,
IT'S BECAUSE I'VE ALREADY DONE IT.
EXACTLY TO YOUR DECLARATIONS,
FOLLOWED TO THE LETTER YOUR INSTRUCTIONS!

A humble, level-headed person.

You said not to fall apart
And yet here we are
You went on to neglect me
When our troubles became hard

You said I couldn't see
What you imagined us to be
Fully awake but you're still asleep
Always dreaming instead of accepting me

I admired you from afar
With my own kind of art
I guess I'm a painter after all
But my work was mine and never ours

And then you found it was always me
That I was all you'd ever need
Guess you finally came around
To acknowledge I'm a human being

But love, I'm gonna accept you
Like the way you accepted me
Hoping that the flaws I see
Will eventually come to be
The end of you.

Goodbye...