I come home somehow from a business trip at 8 in the morning (instead of the planned twelve). I quietly open the door, I think I may have time to go to my husband under the barrel. Ann no, he’s already washing in the soul, singing songs (and you, god, thought he’s cuddling with the grandmother? This is a story about another.)

About what a serious adult woman, wife, mother of two children is doing, driving 200 km to get home.

Here is what? is correct. It runs, into the closet (as is - with a bag, in shoes and upper clothes) and begins to subdue from there.

Water is turned off. Steps of bare feet along the corridor... Pause... Heaven, he thinks, seemed. I went back to the bathroom and stopped singing.

And I decide to finish the show (in the closet it is hot, tight) and give such a lengthy penetrating twist that Wes Craven and George Romero turned into a grave.

And here is what I will tell you. At the time we were married for 15 years, but never in my life, neither before nor after, I had heard in the voice of a brutally strong and courageous man such unfailing horror as the day when he pushed his head out of the bathroom and whispered:

“Who... there?“?”



PS a couple of months later from him arrived a response, but this is another story.