**Three to a Room**
Marina Ivanovna stared at the housing reassignment slip as if it were a death sentence. A tiny dorm room at the technical college—her new home after forty years in her own flat. Not just any room, but one shared with two other lecturers.
“Where am I supposed to keep my things?” she sighed, turning to Stepanich, the caretaker, a kindly old man with bushy grey whiskers.
“Marina Ivanovna, love, what can we do?” He shook his head. “The dorm’s bursting at the seams. The repairs to the faculty wing are delayed—leaky roof, dodgy wiring. Builders swear it’ll be done by late September. The director decided you’ll room with Vera Pavlovna and Zinaida Sergeyevna for now.”
Marina just closed her eyes. At fifty-seven, she never thought she’d be sharing living space again. After the divorce, the flat went to her ex—his name was on the lease first. All she had left was her job teaching literature at a small-town college. Her wages barely covered rent, so when the director offered her a dorm room, she had no choice.
“Here’s your key,” Stepanich handed her a heavy brass one. “Third floor, room 312. Vera and Zinaida know you’re coming.”
With a dull ache in her chest, Marina took the key and dragged her suitcase toward the lift. Everything else sat in boxes at her old neighbour’s flat.
The room wasn’t as cramped as she’d feared. Sturdy, well-worn Soviet furniture: three narrow beds, three nightstands, a wardrobe, and a desk by the window. Two beds were already made—one with a faded floral quilt, the other in deep maroon with tasselled edges.
“You must be Marina Ivanovna?” A voice cut through the silence.
In the doorway stood an older woman with steel-rimmed glasses on a sharp nose. Her stiff posture and tailored blazer screamed *veteran lecturer*.
“Yes,” Marina extended a hand. “And you are…?”
“Zinaida Sergeyevna. Mathematics. Thirty-two years at this college.” Her handshake was brisk. “Your bed’s by the window. Wardrobe’s split three ways—left section’s yours. Shower schedule’s on the door. Don’t be late—hot water’s timed.”
Marina nodded, feeling like a fresher all over again. “Where’s Vera Pavlovna?”
“Canteen duty today,” Zinaida pursed her lips. “Chemistry department. Eccentric type. Blares the radio at dawn and dries herbs everywhere. The stink’s unavoidable.”
*Here we go*, Marina thought, unpacking her case. Coexisting with two strangers her age, set in their ways, wouldn’t be easy.
She met Vera that evening. A whirlwind of a woman with henna-red hair barged in, arms full of apple-filled bags. “Girls, look what I’ve got! From my garden—help yourselves!” Spotting Marina, she beamed. “Oh, you’re here! Vera Pavlovna, delighted!” She crushed Marina’s hand in hers. “Apple?”
“Thanks,” Marina took one, though her stomach was in knots. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Vera, clear your herbs off the sill,” Zinaida interjected. “We’re three now. Space is tight.”
“Zina, stop fussing,” Vera waved her off. “There’s room! Marina, you teach literature, yes? I’ve heard—they say you *write poems* in class!”
Marina flushed. “Just to engage the students—”
“Marvellous!” Vera thrust out palms mottled with chemical burns. “Occupational hazard. Mine learn early—chemistry bites back!”
Zinaida snorted, theatrically opening a ledger. Silence, it seemed, was her religion.
“Tea, girls?” Vera unearthed an electric kettle from her nightstand.
“I’ll pass,” said Zinaida. “Grading.”
To her own surprise, Marina said, “I’d love some.”
Over tea, Vera chattered about her garden, her grandkids, how the college director had once been her student. Her voice was warm, unforced, and Marina felt the day’s tension ease.
“How long have you lived here?” Marina asked.
“Three years,” Vera sighed. “Daughter’s renting with her husband—no space for me. Fine, really. Youngsters need their own lives. The garden’s my escape. Zina here?” She dropped her voice. “Seven years. Husband died. Flat went to her son—he’s in London now, married with kids.”
Zinaida’s back stiffened, though she didn’t look up.
That night, Marina barely slept. Zinaida snored; Vera muttered dreams. Thin walls let in student laughter from the hall.
Dawn came with Vera’s blaring radio. “Rise and shine!” she trilled, pouring tea.
Zinaida winced. “Turn it *down*, Vera.”
“Sorry, pet! Habit.” She lowered the volume. “Marina, you’ve second period, yes?”
Marina nodded, fighting her hair into a bun.
“Plenty of time for proper brekkie. Canteen’s doing pancakes!”
The first week was an adjustment—morning queues for the shower, negotiating space, tiptoeing around routines. Zinaida was militantly tidy: towels *must* hang by size, shoes lined heel-to-toe. Vera was chaos incarnate—her potions cluttered every surface, her jumpers migrated onto the roommates’ chairs.
One evening, as Marina marked essays, Vera burst in, wild-eyed. “Disaster! My test tubes shattered—chem lab’s shut for decontamination. The director’s livid!”
Zinaida pushed up her glasses. “*Told* you not to store reagents in that cupboard.”
“Was I supposed to magic up new shelves?” Vera wailed. “There goes our bonuses!”
“They won’t dock you,” Marina said suddenly. “I’ll call an old mate at the council—he can fast-track repair funds.”
Vera grabbed her hands. “*Would* you? You’re a saint! It’s hard with just my wage… Grandkids visit, you know? Want to spoil them.”
Even Zinaida thawed. “If you could swing that… it’d be a blessing. Whole place is falling apart.”
That night, over tea, the walls came down. Zinaida spoke of her London-based son who rarely called; Vera confessed to being widowed young, raising her daughter alone; Marina admitted her marriage collapsed after twenty years—”Ran off with some girl half his age. Said I ‘cared more about books than him.’”
“Men,” Vera snorted. “Mine eyed the skirt-chasers too. Till the drink took him.”
“Mine… vanished,” Zinaida murmured. “Business trip. Called months later—‘found someone new.’ I had our boy, eight years old…”
They talked till midnight. The early irritations melted into something like grudging respect.
True to her word, Marina rang her council contact. Within days, new lab gear arrived. Vera baked a towering apple pie in thanks.
“Bloody *hell*,” Marina groaned through a mouthful. “This is heaven!”
“Gran’s recipe,” Vera glowed. “Secret’s the cinnamon and a splash of brandy.”
To everyone’s shock, Zinaida took a slice—and nodded approval. “Superb, Vera. You’ve hidden talents.”
And just like that, a odd little friendship took root. Three women, all sharp edges and quirks, learned to bend. Zinaida couldn’t sleep with so much as a sock out of place; Vera talked to her plants; Marina burned midnight oil grading under a desk lamp.
But they adapted. Marina gave warning before late work. Vera dried herbs in the shared kitchen. Zinaida bit back nitpicks.
By October, with repairs still unfinished, they’d stopped minding.
“Let ‘em drag till spring,” Vera laughed, lining up jam jars. “I’m cosy here!”
“Never thought I’d agree,” Zinaida admitted, “but… so am I.”
Come November, the room had become *theirs*. Geraniums bloomed on the sill—Zinaida’s touch. Vera’s lace tablecloth hid the desk’s scars. Marina’s watercolours—a hobby she’d never shared—brightened the walls.
Then the director dropped the bomb. “Ladies! Grand news—repairs are done. You’ll have your own rooms next week!”
Silence thick as pudding followed his exit.
“Well,” Zinaida said at last. “Privacy again.”
“Yes,” Marina lied, throat tight. “Lucky us.”
Only Vera looked truly crushed. “But… our tea times…”
That night, no one spoke. The unspoken truth hung heavy: they’d become something like family.
Next evening, a surprise awaited—a cake iced with *”Cheers for Saving Chem Lab!”* and a bottle of decent sherry, gifts from grateful colleagues.
“Shall we?” VeraThey clinked their teacups, smiling through sudden tears, knowing no matter where they slept, they’d always share this home.
