THE OTHER WIFE
I don’t like August. It’s short. Weak. Pointless, enslaved by autumn and unstable. It’s covered in withered birch leaves, filled with thoughts of school, illnesses and work. The grass smells as if it’s saying farewell. I touched Maria’s hand while we sat on a park bench, to see if she were cold. She sighed and drew closer as if trying to hear something inside me.
“Tell me about your day.”
I felt that Mezentsov did not live with Olga immediately before her death, and at best just dropped by to spend the night occasionally. I also thought he hadn’t just lost her note without any reason.
I was a little frightened: every person I met told me the story of a beautiful girl taking her life, but the story kept changing with the light falling on a new trigger, a new reason every
