He sat down at the table, picked up his phone, and began flipping through the news. Larisa placed a plate in front of him and poured him tea.
“Tonight,” she said without looking up, “try to look presentable. Wear that black dress Katya gave me.”
“It's too small for me,” she replied after a pause.
“Whose fault is it?” Gennady snorted. “I've told you a hundred times: don't eat dinner in the evening.”
The words hurt, but Larisa remained silent. Over the years, silence had become second nature to her. Arguing was pointless, she knew. Every objection became an accusation, every attempt at defense he knew how to twist to ultimately make her feel guilty.
The whole day was a whirlwind of activity. Guests were expected that evening: daughter Katya with her husband and children, son Anton with his wife, Gennady's sister Vera, and a couple of old friends. Larisa was in the kitchen from morning till night. Salads, main courses, appetizers, desserts. The smells mingled, her head throbbed, her back ached.
Gennady looked into the kitchen several times, like an inspector.
“Are you cooking herring under a fur coat?” Make sure you don’t add too much salt.
“Did you get the jellied meat?”
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