“Why are you such a pushover, my dear? You can’t go through life like this. In our country, everything is simple: if you want something, write, call, complain to every authority you can find. Especially during the New Year holidays. Do you think they’ll respond to a polite request? They won’t understand anything. Nobody will lift a finger,”
Valentina Ivanovna continued her fiery lecture about one rather dull yet important matter regarding my six-month battle with the municipal services.
Issues like this sparked a burning enthusiasm in my neighbor. Another favorite topic of hers was the state of my personal life — or rather, the eternal absence of any changes on that front.
So today’s discussion about utility bills was, honestly, the lesser evil.
Shaking my head and thanking Valentina Ivanovna for her well-meant advice, I was just about to slip into my apartment when her final phrase practically knocked me over.
“Oh, and Pavlik was asking about you. Said, ‘Grandma, how’s that neighbor of yours doing?’ Seems he took a liking to you.”
I muttered another polite thank-you and squeezed myself through my door as fast as humanly possible.
As for Pavlik… I already had unforgettable impressions of him, and I intended to avoid a second encounter at any cost. Especially now.
We had met on New Year’s Eve. Nothing magical happened — quite the opposite, in fact. It turned into one of the worst evenings of my life.
Valentina Ivanovna had been complaining about loneliness. Her best friend, Irina Pavlovna, had been admitted to the hospital, so she had no one to celebrate with. And since I hadn’t gone to visit my own family that year, she invited me over.
I could have refused — friends had genuinely invited me — but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to honor my neighbor and greet the New Year quietly and peacefully. Big loud parties never appealed to me.
But the invitation turned out to be a trap. Valentina Ivanovna had planned a matchmaking operation. Her thirty-year-old grandson Pavlik was unmarried, and this troubled her deeply.
In the five years I’d lived in that building, I had never once seen him visit her. Yet she always spoke of him with admiration: how smart and driven he was, how hard he worked to become a programmer.
I admit, I was curious to see him. I understood mothers and grandmothers tend to embellish things… but I didn’t expect that much embellishment.
Pavel was, to be fair, a handsome young man — but as for studying or being interested in anything other than entertainment, that was hard to believe. He spoke to me only about clubs and discos, asked which ones I went to… then gave me a judgmental once-over and apologized:
“Ohhh, well, you probably wouldn’t be into that anyway.”
When I attempted to ask which programming languages he knew, Pavlik puffed up and replied that I wouldn’t understand anything even if he told me.
All of that, I could’ve endured. Valentina Ivanovna was happy to see her grandson, and I didn’t want to spoil her evening. But when she went to the kitchen “on an errand,” winking cheerfully at us, Pavlik leaned back and announced:
“I absolutely need to borrow money from my grandma, so I’ll tolerate this whole matchmaking thing. And by the way, you could’ve dressed better for New Year’s. No wonder you’re still single.”
I was so stunned by his honesty that I couldn’t even respond at first. Then Pavlik opened another bottle of champagne and declared merrily:
“Well, at least there’s plenty to drink and eat.”
Soon enough, the alcohol must have kicked in, because suddenly I no longer seemed so “plain” to him. He reached out, trying to pull me into an embrace.
That was the last straw. I darted into the kitchen, apologized to my neighbor, claimed my friends were waiting for me, and hurried out. I couldn’t go into my own apartment — Valentina Ivanovna followed me into the stairwell — so I ended up on the street with forty minutes left until midnight.
I didn’t want to bother anyone, so I decided to go to work — I always had the office keys in my bag. I warmed myself with tea and cried my fill over the bitter fate of a single thirty-year-old woman… and fell asleep on the couch in the lobby.
And there I had a strange dream.
I dreamt I was running down a narrow dark corridor. Behind me I heard footsteps, and then a voice:
“Miss, you forgot your bag.”
I turned around and saw a man.
“My name is Andrey,” he said. “And yours?”
I woke up at that moment, smiling at how real it all felt, and began gathering my things to go home.
It was four in the morning, and I hoped I could finally get into my apartment unnoticed. And so it happened. The whole unpleasant incident would’ve been forgotten quickly — if not for that strange dream.
After the holidays, trouble rained down on me again. I have this “superpower”: a bad mood attracts new disasters.
First came a flood — Nina Ilinichna upstairs forgot to turn off her tap and water poured straight into my apartment. The next day my phone was stolen. Then I argued with my mother who, as always in such situations, overwhelmed me with advice.
And, of course, Valentina Ivanovna resumed her conversations about Pavlik. That made things even worse.
But I had no time to lie around in depression. My beloved job was waiting. I managed to restore my phone number, which was a relief. On my way to work, I decided to call my mother and apologize. She didn’t stay upset for long — things slowly settled down, and my heart grew lighter.
Except some persistent grain of misfortune must have still clung to me, because I somehow managed to forget my bag.
I knew one thing for sure: I left my apartment with it and took out my phone. After that, my memory offered nothing. Did I leave it on the bench in the park while talking to my mom? Or in the metro car on my way to work? And inside the bag were my documents and apartment keys.
I ran back to the metro. Checked the lost-and-found — nothing. The bench in the park — empty.
I arrived late to work and drifted through the day, thinking only that the only spare keys to my apartment were with my mother. That, I thought bitterly, is loneliness: in this entire city there’s not a single person I trust enough with a spare key.
Climbing the stairs, I wondered whether I’d have to call a locksmith or try sneaking in through the neighbor’s balcony.
But someone was standing by my door.
“Well, you certainly keep interesting hours, miss. I’ve been waiting for an hour. Does your employer know anything about labor laws?”
“And what exactly do I owe…?” I began uncertainly.
“You forgot your bag in the park, didn’t you? Your passport had the address, so I brought it.”
“Oh! Thank you so much! I’d already lost hope.”
“Here you go. Try not to lose it again. And happy Old New Year.”
He smiled and turned to leave.
“Wait, please. How can I thank you?”
“Oh no, no. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“Andrey… won’t you come in for some tea? You must be freezing out here.”
He blinked, puzzled.
“Well… a little. But how did you know my name was Andrey?”
“I saw it in a dream.”
He laughed. I had nothing to offer with the tea except jam my mother had sent me, and my fridge was emptier than a deserted well. I wasn’t wearing anything festive, and after wrestling with all my troubles that morning, I hadn’t even had time to do my makeup.
Yet fate smiled at me anyway.
The dream turned out to be prophetic — but only halfway. I got the name wrong. The man who returned my bag was Alexey.
But the story has a happy ending — or rather, no ending at all, because it’s still going on. We got married, and every year with joy we remember that Old New Year’s Day, the starting point of our life together.
As for Pavlik — to Valentina Ivanovna’s great disappointment — he is still unmarried.
And still “studying.”
Story by Irina Fursova
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