Forced Neighborhood (continued)

Congratulate us – the neighbor who hanged himself has disappeared! He just appeared and then disappeared. We don't know exactly when it happened. One evening, my husband and I were running around, looked at the time, and it was already past 10, but the man was gone. We decided not to celebrate too early and wait until tomorrow. The man didn't show up again. Well, that's when we let our emotions run wild. We laughed, rejoiced, and practically set off fireworks. We even indulged in some cognac.

Oh, by the way, I read in the comments to my first story that this should be told to the whole world, practically entered into a "battle of psychics" contest. I'll say one thing – we don't want to turn our apartment into a public thoroughfare. We already did something stupid – we told my husband's coworkers. When we told them this story, they all simultaneously twirled their fingers at their temples. My husband responded, "Come and see." Oh, the bravado with which each of them approached us! And they left with horror in their eyes and the words, "How do you even live here?" "Well, that's how we live," we said. There were five people in total who trumpeted about our "neighbor" not only throughout the entire district, but throughout the entire city. I've already said that the town is closed and reeks of the Soviet era, and in the minds of those who have lived here for a long time, nothing has changed since then. Plus, there's still the local population, who live by their own rules and can easily show up in the middle of the night to witness it with their own eyes. They don't even recognize the telephone here. So, my husband and I ripped out the doorbell and wrote in chalk on the door that we were gone. So we definitely wouldn't have survived television or newspapers (although they wouldn't have come anyway—the city is under lock and key).

So, he disappeared. We, of course, told the same coworkers about it, so that a second chain of events would be triggered and they would finally leave us alone. And so it happened.

And then December 31, 2013, arrived. My husband came home from work—he was asleep. I spent the day sweating and chopping salads, and by evening, completely exhausted, I was washing dishes. I cursed everything in the world—this city, this holiday, crying: "Mommy, how I want to go back to civilization. I want to go back to St. Petersburg or Kaliningrad, to the sea (my natural habitat is the northwest of our vast country), I want... I want..."—basically, I just whined. And I felt my husband hug me from behind, his stubble rubbing against my neck. I said, "Darling, I'm sorry I whined too much. I just want to go home so badly." He remained silent and continued rubbing. I said to him, "Misha, I asked you to shave..." and fell silent. My husband came home in the morning, climbed into the bathroom, and emerged spotless, shaved, and smooth as a baby's bottom. I panicked. I dropped the dishes, turned my head—no one there. The hug loosened. Well, everyone understood—I was gripped by terror again, screaming at the top of my lungs. Knocking down the corners, I galloped from the kitchen to the room where my husband was sleeping peacefully, and fell onto the bed. My husband jumped up, like in an action movie, screaming, "Who offended you? Who should I kill?" Remembering it now, of course, I roll with laughter. But then, you know, there was more to it. My husband walked around the entire apartment—silence, everything was fine. I calmed down only after I was pretty drunk.

Now think about it—what's better? Probably, if it were still hanging...