Vesna entered carrying a pot of basil and a bag that could not be mistaken for a toiletries case. Alen stood in the kitchen of the new flat, looking first at the bag, then the plant. When he said they would finally have their own space, she had imagined shelves, two toothbrushes, and mornings when nobody dressed in a hurry. He had bought two glasses and one towel. The towel hung from the oven handle.
She told him she had spoken to her husband. Not about another weekend, but about leaving. Alen pulled out a chair and sat before she did. He asked why she had not waited until they agreed. Vesna put the basil on the windowsill. During eleven months together they had spoken about the future often enough for her to stop asking when the future began. Now she listened as he pushed each conversation back into an indefinite time.
His wife knew nothing. He did not intend to leave, at least not now. He had rented the flat so they could stop looking for available rooms and watching the clock. He considered it a major step for them. Vesna looked at one lonely glass on the table while the other remained in its cardboard box. She asked where, within that major step, she was supposed to keep her winter coat. He did not answer. There was no wardrobe.
She was angry with him until she said he had destroyed her marriage. She heard the sentence and stopped. Alen had lied about the size of their future, but she had lied to her husband daily without his assistance. She disliked the fact that both things could be true at once. She sat on the other chair, the wobbly one, and for the first time did not try to imagine a lovelier version of the room.
She went to her sister's. She took the basil because she had bought it herself and because leaving it to decorate the next secret afternoon was unbearable. Alen called, saying she was panicking and asking for time. Her husband sent one message, a practical question about belongings she needed to collect. His restraint hurt more than her lover's fear, but she did not ask him to make it easier for her.
A month later she found a small studio. There was enough light at the window for the basil. Some evenings she wanted to call one of them simply to avoid eating alone. Instead she washed her plate, opened the window, and stayed in a room that this time she did not have to describe as anything larger than it was.