My husband looked at me with childlike innocence, and I struggled mightily not to slap him. Throughout that time, my nerves were frayed, and eventually they snapped.
When I was at university, my classmates and I often went to a cozy little bar where a live band played every Friday. One evening, the stage caught my attention more than usual. Front and center stood an attractive guitarist with large brown eyes; he didn’t take his gaze off me during the whole concert, and I was delighted to feel our mutual attraction.
“Good evening, may I buy you a drink?” he asked charmingly as soon as he finished playing.
“Vika,” I replied immediately, extending my hand.
“My name is Andrei.” The young man lightly kissed my fingers.
Such a gesture surprised me greatly—I wasn’t used to such courtesy. My friends watched us with admiration; it was clear they found the musician as captivating as I did.
“Unfortunately I have to go, but could I have your number?”
“Of course.” I dictated my number, smiling.
“I’ll call you, I promise.” He put his phone in his pocket. “Good evening, ladies!” he added to my friends before disappearing behind the stage.
“Vika, don’t miss this wonderful guy!” said Lilia, a hint of envy in her voice.
“Yes, he’s truly charming.” I continued to stare at the door through which Andrei had left.
“I’ve always dreamed of dating a musician,” Angela confessed.
“Maybe Andrei has a friend who’s just as nice—I’ll ask him if he calls me.”
“Oh, he’ll call you, of course you saw how he looked at you?” Lilia assured.
“I hope you’re right,” I replied, full of hope.
Lilia had seen right: the very next day, Andrei invited me out, and I accepted without hesitation. We spent a delightful evening, talking non-stop about all kinds of subjects. Early the next morning, he took me home; exhausted but happy, I collapsed into bed and decided to skip class.
Gradually our meetings became daily, and we decided to move in together.
“We should find a larger apartment; yours is too small for both of us,” he suggested.
“You’re right, let’s look for other options.”
Andrei still lived with his parents, making that an impractical option. I was renting a small studio—fine for one person, but cramped for two.
“I’ll start looking tomorrow for the best apartment for us,” he promised.
“I don’t care much about the place as long as you’re in it,” I said with loving eyes. “But make sure it’s not too expensive—our part-time jobs can’t pay a lot.”
We quickly found a suitable place, and a week later we moved into a spacious one-bedroom apartment—that marked the beginning of our new life. Time passed, I got my degree and began working at the company where I had interned, while Andrei continued singing at the bar at night, refusing any other job. A few months later, he proposed, and I joyfully accepted.
“I don’t want a grand wedding—let’s celebrate the day just the two of us.”
“You surprise me—I thought you’d invite all your friends.”
“You and me is enough. We don’t have much money, and I refuse to go into debt.”
“Alright, I’m with you.”
We married quietly and wandered around the city, visiting our favorite spots. I felt no regret at not having a lavish reception—for my happiness, one Andrei was enough.
Soon after, one evening, he delivered bad news:
“The bar is closing, I won’t be able to play there anymore.”
I tried to reassure him, suggesting other venues where he could perform, but he explained that his bandmates wanted to move to another level, requiring more rehearsals and expensive equipment. Since I’d be getting a raise, I offered to work solo for a while so he could focus on his music.
At first everything went well: his enthusiasm warmed my heart. But very quickly, his behavior shifted. One evening he demanded:
“Vika, I need money: I need a new guitar.”
“But you already have one!” I protested.
“It’s outdated—instrumentally I can’t succeed without a good instrument.”
He asked for seventy thousand rubles, claiming it was an investment for our future. I gave in and withdrew from our savings. However, the household began to deteriorate: he became rude, spent his evenings drinking, and neglected me.
One night I heard him come home drunk:
“How long are you going to keep drinking?”
“I need to relax—I’ve got a crazy work rhythm.”
“Work? But where is your income?”
He lost his temper, claiming I demotivated him and insisting he was too “creative” for ordinary employment.
His supposed creativity irritated me, turning our apartment into a warehouse of instruments bought with my money. One day I tripped over a large box:
“What is this?”
“It’s a mic stand—be careful, it was expensive,” he replied as if it were a family investment.
My patience quickly reached its limit: I could no longer tolerate his contempt and absences. My friends assured me he continued partying in bars, unaffected by our fights. Lilia advised:
“Talk to him calmly—shouting won’t change anything.”
“I already tried, it doesn’t work.”
As New Year approached, I received a generous bonus. Proudly I announced:
“I got fifty thousand extra this month!”
But Andrei shamelessly replied:
“Give me that bonus—I need it more than you.”
Enraged, I finally yelled:
“You’ve lost all sense! Our budget is shared, yes, but I’m the only one contributing for months!”
He claimed I understood nothing, and I responded:
“Get out! I don’t want you here anymore.”
Caught off guard, he tried to protest, but I cut him off and left the apartment. A few hours later I returned: his things were gone. Relieved, I knew I had made the right decision.
Two months later, Lilia told me about Andrei:
“He’s now living with Rita, the waitress from the bar.”
I asked in surprise:
“Rita? The one who always served us?”
“Yes! She believes he will make her famous.”
I felt pity for her, but held on to hope for true love. Today, I am building a relationship with a man who makes me feel protected as if behind a stone wall.
