“You were an only child. Very private person; kept mostly to yourself. You said the art world was full of fake people and that you preferred books to parties.”
I hate how he’s glued to his phone while rattling off these “facts” about me. Everything about his posture screams avoidance, like he’s talking about a character in a book rather than his wife’s family history.
The more he dodges, the more I wonder what he’s hiding.
“That doesn’t sound like someone who would marry a man like you.”
That gets his attention. He sets the phone down and cranes his neck to look at me. “What do you mean, ‘A man like you’?”
“Dangerous. Connected. The kind of man who owns pieces of restaurants and makes waiters nervous with just his presence.”
His nostrils flare, and something tells me I’ve struck a nerve. “Maybe the quiet art curator act was just that—an act.”
“An act for whom?” I knit my brows together.
He lets out a low chuckle, then says, “For yourself. Some people spend their whole lives pretending to be someone they’re not because it feels safer than embracing who they really are.”
I want to argue, but something about his words resonates in a deeply uncomfortable way. Like he’s describing something true about me that I can’t access.
“Speaking of acts,” I begin as I tuck my legs under me and start tracing the tattoo on my wrist, “I’ve been going through the closet, the jewelry, even my supposed favorite books, and nothing triggers any emotional response. Why do you think that is?”
“Memory and emotion are linked. When you lost one, it affected the other.”
“But my physical muscle memory is intact. I can speak French fluently, and I knew how to handle that drunk at the restaurant. Why would some memories survive and others disappear?”
Dmitri takes a long sip of vodka before answering. “I’m not a doctor, Katya. All I know is that the brain is complicated. Trauma affects people differently.”
“That’s what you keep saying, but it doesn’t explain why I feel like a stranger in my own life.”
He rolls his shoulders like he’s working out tension and lets out a frustrated groan. “Give it time, kotyonok. Recovery isn’t linear.”
I stand and walk to the wall of photographs, and my thoughts from the other day about them being too candid resurface. I know Dmitri is frustrated, but I can’t help myself.
“These photos.” I point to one that shows us at a charity gala. “Why would we have professional photographers foreverything? Most couples just use their phones. But every photo here looks like it was shot for a magazine.”
“I hired photographers for special occasions,” he snaps, flicking his hand like he’s brushing the question away. “I wanted to preserve our memories.”
“Or create them.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and the silence that follows feels dangerous.
“What are you implying?” His tone drops, carrying the same edge I heard during that phone call. The kind that says violence is never far away.
“Nothing. I’m just trying to understand why everything feels so manufactured. Like props in someone else’s play.”
“Maybe because you’re looking for problems.”
He stands and stalks toward me, and I find myself cataloging his approach. Distance, probable weapons, available exits. Why does my brain work this way if I’m supposed to be a harmless art expert?
“Why do I do that?” I blurt out.
“Do what?”
“Assess threats. Track exits. Calculate distance and advantage.” I motion toward the room. “There are three ways out, two things I could use as weapons, and I know how many steps it’d take you to reach me. That’s not how art curators think.”
“Maybe you’re just more observant than most,” he says with a shrug that feels too easy.
“Or maybe I’msomething else entirely.”
