[paris] love's not a competition. [tag; arkadiy]

but I'm winning.

This was so exciting!

Florence had never celebrated an anniversary with anyone before. In the past, she hadn't even wanted to but now, things were different. She was on the eve of celebrating an entire year married to the love of her life. The tall blonde practically skipped down the dirty and uneven pavements of the city she called home.

As childish as it sounded, Florence felt buoyed by the fact that this was a giant middle finger to all the naysayers in hers and Arkadiy's life. A "take that" to the ones who said they'd rushed into it, a shock to the ones who said they were too young to know what they were really doing and a slap in the face to those who said it wouldn't last. There had been some resistance from both sides of their families, she was sure. Her father was livid and her mother was less than enthused but once they'd met her husband, they'd just melted. She'd accidentally busted her maman's plans of a surprise party.

Flo already had plans. Nothing over the top but she wanted them to be alone for at least some of the day. She carried a Hessian bag bulging with ingredients she'd bought from the market. Fresh bread and vegetables and all sorts of things, prepared to make a meal together. Florrie wasn't stupid. She knew that her Russian food was sucky but Arkasha was too sweet to hurt her feelings. While it bothered her, she'd since taken a step back and concentrated on doing what she did well; winging it. As of late, she'd been making a bizarre mash up of Franco-Russian inspired dishes. Some were great, some were…not great. Tonight's menu was bouillabaisse, but not as anyone knew it.

She'd been spending the afternoon with some of her friends but had skipped out early because she missed him. When she wasn't with him, she found herself talking about him and when she wasn't talking about him, she found herself thinking about him. It had come to a point where her girl friends were getting bored and effectively booted her out of the restaurant.

In her arms was a large brown paper wrapped bouquet of flowers which she was currently struggling with. Florence loved flowers and she loved gifting them. She also didn't believe in gender norms or roles. Why shouldn't men like getting flowers as well as women? The flowers were bright, a mix of large blooms and smaller ones that wrapped around the stems like a halo. She knew he'd like them.

It was a warm summer's night. The season in Paris was particularly brutal at times. With the high rise buildings, the air was sometimes heavy and sticky with no wind circulating. It was busy and loud and sometimes overbearing but the sunsets were to die for. The skyline was painted in watercolour hues of pink and orange, looking as though they had been swiped across the sky by a giant's hand  holding a paintbrush as the sun began to slowly dip below the horizon. Florence picked up her pace, her wedges click-clacking against the stone as the short hem of her dress swayed.

Out of habit, she stepped across the rather aggressive crack in the pavement outside of the apartment building as she neatly skirted the broken step. As always, the elevator was out of order as she hopped up the five flights of stairs, grunting in effort occasionally as she did so. The subject of moving out occurred maybe once shortly after they were married. They could afford a bigger place in a nicer area. Canal Saint Martin and The Marais looked pretty but this place fit them. It was lopsided and quirky and old and a little iffy but it was home. Their home. They'd done this themselves and the idea of leaving it made her feel a bit sick.

The artist was home an hour earlier than she told Arkasha she would be but she was sure he wouldn't mind. Humming to herself, she fumbled for her keys and clumsily slid them into the lock and as always, the front door stuck and she forced it open with a shoulder barge. "Honey, I'm ho-oome!" She called out into the empty apartment, dumping her bags by the door as she ignored the vegetables rolling out of it.

Growing impatient to be greeted, she hugged the flowers close to her chest as she stepped inside and sniffed the air curiously. The smell of cigarette smoke was nothing unusual because her husband smoked but he'd made her a promise that he wouldn't smoke in their home. It was strong but she just assumed that he was maybe still wearing his jacket or something and the smell had clung to it. She'd asked Arkadiy if he'd consider quitting. She thought he'd genuinely had tried to for a while but she found half empty crumpled packets scattered throughout the apartment. While she'd never spoken to him directly, she'd taken to tossing them in the bin or leaving them out in a silent sign to him that she knew what he was up to. He didn't seem to know that smoking them could potentially kill him faster and the idea of her ever being alone again made her positively sick.

Stepping into the living room, the balcony door was open and she smiled as she saw his familiar figure with his back to her. Her big blue eyes traced the curve of his broad shoulders as a wistful sigh escaped her mouth but it was short-lived as she saw the cigarette dangling from his fingers. The smile slipped from her face as she realised he was smoking inside, just like he'd never said he'd do. Like he'd promised not to do. It was no secret that Florence hated Arkasha smoking. It was a filthy, expensive, life-ending habit and in her ever present rose tinted world, if she didn't see him do it, it wasn't happening. But this was their home, their sanctuary and while it wasn't a big deal, she couldn't help but feel it had been violated. He'd promised her.

Struggling to fix her face and ignoring the sting of anger, she held the flowers limply by her side, a few of the petals pooling by her feet. Florence's large eyes seemed sad in the dim light but barely masking the bubbling anger as she forced herself to swallow. "What the Hell are you doing?"


@Arkadiy Malenkov

Arkadiy Maksimovich was home alone and he was making the most of it. It didn’t happen too often, considering they both technically worked from home, so when it did happen, it was a thing of beauty. He loved his wife, of course, and couldn’t get enough of the time he spent with her, but there was just something so devastatingly wonderful about being able to smoke in peace; he had a glass of red wine held loosely in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Standing in the open windows to the tiny balcony, Arkasha was able to watch the sun dip down below the buildings, people watching when he could make them out from five floors up.

He supposed he really shouldn’t be in the house; he had promised Florence he wouldn’t smoke indoors, though he thought that he should get some credit for opening the windows. They’d had that chat before, the ‘have you ever thought about quitting’ one, but honestly, he hadn’t. It wasn’t like it was a new habit, anyway, and she had managed to fall in love with him while being well aware of his habit. It wasn’t that big of a deal for him. He had thought the French were of the same mindset, but he had managed to find the one anti-smoking woman in the city. C’est la vie.

So instead, he had switched to lite cigarettes, and that had lasted for a while; now, he had made the switch to ‘smoke lites if Florence can see’ while keeping his preferred packs a little better hidden. He only smoked out on the balcony on occasion, usually heading downstairs and taking a walk around the block, completely for the sake of his wife. If that wasn’t effort, he didn’t know what was. Still, she tossed out packs if she found them, or left them out in the dead center of the kitchen table like she had caught him in a lie. He had thought it was cute, for a while, that she cared so much. Now, he was just better at hiding his cigarettes.

He was dressed in just a pair on linen trousers -- it was so incredibly hot in the city already -- and fully embracing not having to leave the apartment to get his vices. Florence had dinner plans with a few of her girlfriends, and he was almost relieved to have not been invited. He had been before, but things were almost always lost in translation. Girl-talk-French was so much harder to understand than the French he knew. He took a large sip of wine -- he’d never admit to how much he was enjoying French wine these days -- and followed it with a drag from his cigarette. He probably had time for another after this before he’d need to start cleaning up.

Except -- What the hell are you doing?. Arkasha blanched, unable to mistake his wife’s voice for anything else. She was early. So early. Shit. There was no point denying anything, clearly. While he certainly didn’t think it was a big deal, to have a cigarette right in front of the wide open window, it was plainly obvious that Florence didn’t approve. She had already seen him, so he turned around without first trying to ditch the evidence.

“You said you would be home late.” He wanted to sound like he was honestly surprised, but maybe it was the language barrier or the sheer annoyance he felt at the whole situation that set his voice on a sharper edge. “I was just having a cigarette.” Two per glass of wine, and he was on his fourth glass, but he didn’t think the details would win him any favors.

Florence was struggling. She told herself it wasn't a big deal. Nowadays, basically everyone smoked. It was like the entire city was blanketed by a fog of it. It really wasn't a big deal. She always shrugged off the niggling doubt that lingered around her. She never wanted to be one of those wives who dictated their husband's life. She was too young to be nagging and annoying but Arkadiy couldn't see that her intentions were good.

It was maybe the first time in a long while that Florence hadn't become distracted by his half naked form. Instead, her large blue eyes were glued to the cigarette hanging elegantly from his slim fingers. Don't do it the voice in the back of her head told her as she felt her cheeks flush pink in anger and frustration. She thought the word "betrayal" was maybe too much but she felt it in her chest, like Arkadiy had just shoved a knife right through her back. She'd caught him red-handed. It was like he'd lit up the second she'd closed the door and had a complete disregard for her feelings.

Instead, she offered her husband a thin-lipped smile as she turned on her heel and headed into the kitchen. She slammed the flowers down on the kitchen counter, the brittle stems bending beneath the force as the petals fell to the floor pitifully. Florence made a show of slamming the ingredients down as she hauled open the door of their ancient refrigerator before she shoved the beef deep into it as she banged the door shut. "You told me you wouldn't smoke in the house," she told him tersely because yes, he was in the house. He wasn't on the balcony. That was what he'd agreed to.

From the kitchen, she looked up sharply as she heard her husband's tone of voice. Instantly, Florence's hackles were up. She was bristling with irritation as the hairs on the backs of her arms stood to attention, her fists balling out of sight. The concern and disappointment was short lived and swiftly replaced by petty annoyance. That was the first time that she was aware of, that he hadn't been pleased she'd returned home early. Her heart dropped to rest somewhere that felt like her stomach. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes and she hastily blinked them back and turned away from him as she shoved the flowers crossly away from her; he didn't deserve those roses.

"Oh," Florence replied with a snort of derision. "Just having a cigarette," she went on as she echoed his words, her voice sounding high and shrill as she began to manically clean the already pretty tidy kitchen area. She didn't look at Arkasha as she squirted antibacterial spray onto the countertop, rubbing the same area over and over again with more force than necessary. Roughly, she wiped her eyes to get rid of her tears of exasperation as she smudged her make up. She hated crying and she cried at most things; cute dogs, baby animals, when there was a nice sunset but especially when she was scared or stressed.  "Mmhm. Great," she squeaked as she nodded, spraying more of the liquid onto the counter and getting mad at the hole there was in the dish cloth.

She was terribly sorry for returning home because she missed him. She was sorry that she wanted to spend the eve of their very first anniversary together. She was just fucking sorry that she'd returned earlier than he liked so she could ruin his fun.

"And how many cigarettes did you have?" Florence asked her husband as she ditched the cloth, coming around the counter and into the living room. She stood in front of him, her hands on her hips and her eyes wild. "Hm?" She prompted Arkadiy almost instantly, not giving him time to reply. Her hands were shaking as the belt of her pretty dress was loose, the previously jaunty bow now looked limp and sad. She was trying so hard not to become a banshee. She didn't like this. They'd kept things together so well. They hadn't really have an argument. But they were gonna.

Florence took a step back as she looked around their quirky apartment, as though searching for evidence of Arkadiy's crime. "Accio cigarettes!" All of a sudden, a half a dozen crumpled packets of cigarettes came swarming towards her. With a squeak of alarm, she recoiled as the boxes ricocheted off her body with dull thuds! The setting sun cast their living room into a warm and golden glow, the cigarette packets glinting at her feet, shiny and mocking. It was cute at first. She left his cigarettes out to let him know that he'd been rumbled, in hopes that he'd take the hint and make a change. But this?

With an unsteady hand, Florence covered her mouth as the shock set in. Arkadiy had lied to her. Wasn't that one of their vows? To love and to cherish, to honour, to laugh, not to go behind one another's backs in a cowardly fashion? Stooping, she picked up a scrunched up packet. Falling silent, she ran a thumb over the cardboard. "You said you were cutting back." Her tone wasn't accusatory, it was more…empty. Like the fight had been knocked out of her. Almost. Eventually, she met his eye and with all the force she could muster, she launched the almost-full packet at him.

“I am literally inches from the balcony,” Arkasha answered sternly. Of course his wife had picked up on the one little grey area that he was wading around in. Yes, he was technically in the house, yes, he knew where he was, but couldn’t he get a little credit? He was trying wasn’t he? For fuck’s sake -- they had magic to clean up after themselves. That magic conveniently rid the apartment of stale smoke if he wanted it to; yet, he could distinctly remember her telling him that she liked how he smelled, that whiff of smoke and aftershave. She liked the smell on him, but not the house? He had fallen for that, apparently.

He was still holding onto his cigarette, and he reminded not to flick the ash from its end, not now. Any sort of movement involving his cigarette would just set her off, clearly, and he was already done with this conversation. And for her sake, he hoped she was done, too.

But she moved to start cleaning -- ?? -- with a ferocity that he hadn’t seen her clean with before. Was this how she got mad at him? The tone of her voice was clearly indicating that she wasn’t accepting his excuse that he was simply having a smoke, unless the French had some very funny way of showing their displeasure that wasn’t this. She wasn’t looking at him, and he stayed quiet, finally moving to flick his cigarette away, over the balcony railing and onto the street below, honestly not caring to look out below before tossing it.

“Great.” He hadn’t meant to reply, honestly. He had, somewhere in the past thirty seconds, decided to let Florence talk herself down, just get it all out of her system without egging her on at all. They hadn’t had a proper fight ever, and that seemed like the best way to continue to avoid it. But the word escape his lips before he could recall them back -- thanks to the wine, no doubt -- and with a tone very unlike one he would use to try and calm her down.

He knew better than to answer her next question; instead, he rolled his shoulders back subconsciously, drawing himself up to his full height as she marched over to stand in front of him. She was close enough to touch, but something told him that wouldn’t solve their problems now. This was a bit more of a delicate situation, wasn’t it? She didn’t give him an opportunity to answer her anyway, even if he had wanted to, which he certainly didn’t.

Arkasha clenched his jaw tightly shut as his wife stepped back and summoned his cigarettes; he hadn’t been expecting that, not ever. Maybe as some sort of cute little joke, but not like this. Never like this. He made no move to protect her from the flying boxes, didn’t flinch when they bounced off of her. His breathing was a bit sharper now, exclusively in an out through his nose, as he made no more effort to relax his face and appear as innocent as ever.

He hadn’t said anything before when she had found his cigarettes, never mentioned the occasional missing pack that he assumed she had tossed in the bin. It hadn’t mattered, she was just looking out for him, she never said a word when he simply went out and bought more. He was honestly surprised that she didn’t light them on fire right then and there, but then again, he supposed that the smell might offed her delicate sensibilities.

“I am cutting back.” He took a step forward and pointed down at Florence’s feet with the hand not still clutching his glass of wine. “This is cutting back.” He had made an attempt at smoking lites, and that had lasted for some time, but he could only handle the ‘And anything for you?’ question when he was buying them so many times before needing to switch back. He was being honest, though; that really was cutting back. He didn’t think she fully understood the extent of his smoking, which was only made more clear when she decided not to hear him out, instead throwing the pack at him.

Arkasha deflected the pack with his forearm, though this time he had used the one with the wine glass. The liquid sloshed out of the glass and onto the floor, but Arkasha didn’t mind. Florence seemed to be in the mood to clean anyway. “You want to throw more?” Arkasha lowered his arm and held his arms at his side, letting his wife have a clear shot. “There’s more packs than this, too. You need to work on your summoning charm.”

Florence could feel her pulse hammering in her throat as the sounds of Paris floated delicately in through the open window. There was the trundle of traffic, the click-clacking of footsteps and laughter from the cafes that spilled out and onto the worn pavements. She used to call those noises her Parisian lullaby but as of right now, it all blared like distorted white noise.

As Arkadiy stepped towards her, she held her ground. His words dinged off her and her slim fingers curled into fists as she held herself uncharacteristically stiffly. She didn't want to fight. This wasn't worth fighting over. It wasn't really a deal breaker, smoking. She'd known from the first day she'd met him that he had this filthy and expensive habit. While she disliked it (and actively suppressed her discomfort), it had all sort of…came out. She didn't know what had sparked her reaction and while she knew it was inappropriate and she needed to say sorry, her husband's nonchalant behaviour seemed to be stoking her fires.

Florence hadn't meant to throw anything at him. Quickly, he deflected it and the wine sloshed onto the floor. There was a brief moment of silence, pregnant and heavy as they stared at each other. She didn't think she was normally an angry or aggressive person and her pretty face changed. It crumpled, mixed with shock and regret at her rash behaviour as the wine crept across the floor and touched her bare toes.

She blinked quickly in an vain attempt to stem the tears that were stinging her eyes. Arkadiy wouldn't know but whenever Florence got stressed, she had a tendency to cry. She'd always hated it. It went completely against her self-assured-independent-carefree-lady archetype. While she didn't think crying showed weakness, she hated it all the same.

Did she want to throw more? She forced herself to swallow hard. Cold, hard reality began to seep in. She was arguing and over what, really? So, she'd caught him smoking. Big deal. As far as vices went, it wasn't even that bad. He could be out gambling or womanising or cheating on her or lying but no, he didn't do that sort of thing. It still hurt, though. In her messed up brain, it did feel like a personal betrayal. He'd promised her. With sad eyes, she looked at the pile of wine-stained cardboard boxes at her feet and her stomach churned.

"Oh," the tall blonde said in response as she sketched a small smile. That hurt. "Ouch." She fell silent again as she stared at him. It sounded fucked up but he fitted into Paris beautifully. Bathed in the city lights, Arkasha was every bit the Parisian man. There was a sad tinge in her chest as the realisation pulled down on her heartstrings. Florence had dated a handful of French men and she suddenly saw the similarities. He was tall, handsome and well dressed. He was romantic and charming and thoughtful.

Anxiously, Florrie chewed on her thumbnail as she blinked at him. There was no doubting that he was heartbreakingly beautiful. The darkness suited him, his cheekbones sharp in the dim yellow glow behind him. In the last ten minutes, things had changed. He'd gone from soft and reliable to cool and distant. She knew that well in this city. Arkasha was mocking her casually and cruelly. He was belittling her problems, rather than becoming concerned about why she had them in the first place. Like it was a big joke. He was on the defensive. Some men in this city liked to do that, to twist words and use them as ammunition but she never thought he'd do that to her. He was a true Frenchman, indeed.

Florence hadn't said anything in a few minutes as she nodded her head gently, watching him standing there, shirtless and annoyed. Feeling frustrated, the tall blonde ran her hands through her hair to the back of her neck, where her fingers tightened on the follicles. She'd opened up the floodgates so she might as well drown.

"You don't get it," she whispered as she refused to meet his eye. Suddenly remembering her manners, she took a few steps back and away from him, retreating into the shadows to give him room. "They'll kill you," she told him sternly. They were both still young and perhaps unaware of their own mortality but Florence was. "You just --" she took a step towards him and extended her hand but left it hanging in mid-air as she let out a grunt of exasperation.

Unable to find the words she wanted to use, she smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead with considerable force. "They'll kill you and you don't realise it, that's what's really pissing me off," she added, honestly. "What if we have kids?" She pressed Arkadiy insistently, her eyes wide. Kids or dogs, both would be devastated about his premature loss. "You won't see them grow up." Finding out he was a heavy smoker was a blow, certainly, but she had to be honest. "What about your parents and friends?" She swallowed as the odd image of him laying in a casket swam before her eyes and she forced herself to swallow the vomit that appeared.  "For fuck's sake, Arkasha," Florence replied, pulling on her hair in stress. "What about me?"

Ouch. Arkasha blinked once, twice. His hand felt empty without a cigarette, and he was this close to reaching for another, to really drive the point home that this was his apartment, too and if he wanted to smoke in it, then he would. He had humored her long enough, had put up with her cutesy aversion to this thing she had known about him from the start. How many times had we walked past her shop with a cigarette in hand? Hadn’t he plucked a pack from his shirt pocket after he had dress her in it that very first time they talked? She had met his family; the only Malenkov that didn’t smoke was the cat.

But he remained still, his gaze fixed on his wife as she finally looked back at him. He suppressed the urge to wrap his arms around her, to comfort her, to reassure her that he would fix whatever was hurting her -- he was responsible for that this time,  and honestly, he wasn’t done. She looked away, but he didn’t offer her the same kindness.

They’ll kill him; it took him a few seconds to realize she was referring to the cigarettes. Walking down the street could kill him. Hell, if she had better aim and a bit more oomph in her swing, Florence could kill him, too. She stepped forward and Arkasha stood his ground, not meeting the hand she had lifted into the air with anything more than a passing glance.

Arkasha raised both eyebrows, still not sure how she had jumped from being mad he had caused an odor in the living room to being mad he was actively trying to shorten his lifespan. She had moved onto their kids -- their kids -- before he could get a word in edgewise about the last thing. He opened his mouth to protest -- they had never discussed children, which in hindsight seemed like a bad idea to not mention before getting married -- but she was back on him dying young. When did she anticipating leaving the earth? How old did she think he was?

Arkasha’s parents and friends -- Viktor was perhaps the only exception -- were smokers. Most of Florence’s friends were, too. She had introduced him to people that have since become his friends as well, and most of them smoked, too. So what about them? What if they never saw the non-existent Malenkov children grow up? His brother had bought him his first pack of cigarettes, and his father had bought the second.

“What about you?” He finally got a chance to speak, and the weight of all the unspoken things before came with it. “Is this about you now?” He shook his head, still not quite following the argument to this point. “For fuck’s sake,” he repeated, using her choice of phrase. “Is this new?” He shook his head again, now understanding why she couldn’t look at him while she had been speaking; if he looked at her, he wouldn’t be able to show quite so much restraint with his words. He might not have exhaled cigarette smoke into her face while they were dating, but it certainly wasn’t a secret that he smoked.

For fuck’s sake. “Did you think you could change me after marrying me?” He looked at her again, taking a step forward. “It only took you a year to bring it up,” he added the next part with a bit more emphasis, “Or, almost a year.” Arkasha stepped around her and into the kitchen, setting his glass down on the counter with a bit more force than necessary. He turned to face his wife again, resting his palms on the counter in front of him and leaning forward. “Better you have your regrets now, than later.”

She hadn't meant to say that.

It all come tumbling out like a torrent and she couldn't snatch the words out of the air. A look of shock flickered across her face that looked pale in the weak yellow streetlamps and she held a hand to her mouth in shock. It had been building and she'd lost control in the worst way. It was almost their anniversary and she'd ruined it. The way Arkadiy was looking at her made her stomach twist and turn.

The silence between them was dark and heavy as Florence stood in the dim lighting, her chest rising and falling thinly as her heart pounded in her ears. This entire thing was stupid. It wasn't really a big deal but it still niggled at her. It felt like a betrayal and he couldn't see it - or maybe he could and he didn't care. Sides of both of them were emerging tonight and she wasn't sure she liked it.

Florence made an indignant noise as her eyes widened. Arkadiy turned her words around so fluently, it floored her and she was left momentarily speechless. Her eyes dropped to the crumpled packet of cigarettes as guilt and shame trickled into her bones as the initial anger started to dissipate. Was this about her? Her preferences? Her annoyances? She stared at him suddenly, her pretty face creasing as her eyebrows furrowed.

"Maybe," she answered her husband as she accompanied it with a careless shrug that she didn't mean. Florence had been looking up at a crack in their ceiling like a petulant teenager before her eyes slid back to Arkasha. She shook her head. No, it wasn't new. It didn't used to bother her. When they'd first started dating, she kind of liked that he smoked. It suited his aesthetic. He was charming and creative and mysterious and she was entranced by the way the smoke curled around him when he wrote.  She hadn't minded that his breath was tinged with the poisonous chemical because she was so head over heels for him, she was desperate for his affection.

But things progressed. They became very serious, very quickly. She didn't regret a thing and putting his health and happiness before her own was not a burden. He was young but he wouldn't be young forever. A few weeks ago, she'd heard him coughing in the bathroom and it spooked her. Florence balled her hands into fists, her nails leaving little crescent shaped marks in her palms. She was frustrated. She was being misunderstood.

"What?"

The word was ripped from her throat by an unseen force in a voice that didn't sound anything like her own. Arkadiy stepped into her space and she held herself stiffly, standing almost with her nose in his chest as he rounded on her. "Have you gone mad?" She exclaimed, her eyebrows shooting upwards. She took that as a personal insult. He could have stabbed her through the chest and it would have been less painful than his accusation.

Change him? Arkadiy wasn't perfect but that made him perfect - at least to her. He had no idea how deeply that hurt her. She was stunned into silence as she blinked back her tears. She folded her arms around her chest so tightly, her fingers gripping at the material of her dress with such force that her knuckles turned white. This was spiralling out of control. This man standing in front of her was not the man she married and it scared her. Everyone got mad but this was bordering on cruel.

Florence jumped when Arkasha slammed his glass down on the counter and her heart lurched. Almost a year, he'd said. He was twisting the knife. Almost a year, indeed. They'd married at eleven minutes past two, which was only in a few hours. Arkadiy was maliciously mocking her and she didn't know if he was aware or he was being deliberately spiteful. "I told you," Florence said in a weak voice that snapped mid-sentence. "You said you'd switched to lites," she pressed him as she stared at him. The packs she'd found had been the normal, full strength ones.

 "Are you mocking me?" She asked him, her eyes shining with tears. "Did you think this was funny? Was I laughed at when you were with your friends? Better get home before it gets dark, your wife has your balls in a vice" Florence replied in a very convincing but rather derisive impersonation of a Russian accent. Her cheeks grew pink as she stayed rooted to the spot. Had be bought reduced tar cigarettes for show, then tossed them into the bin when he met up with his friends, in fear of being made fun of? Had the people he spent time with called her a nag, a bore, a buzz kill? Was Arkadiy rebelling, just because he could? Undermining her to fit in? Doubts crept into her mind as she overanalysed everything suddenly; she was a fool.

"Oh, grow up, Arkadiy," Florence hissed at him as she bordered on losing her temper again. "The only thing I regret was bringing this stupid thing up with you because you're acting like a child." So was she but she was too proud to admit it. Her big blue eyes looked to where she'd tossed her coat and she wondered if she could just go and take a walk to cool down. She really wanted to start slamming doors.