A Lingering Bad Feeling “It’s over—there won’t be a wedding!” exclaimed Marina. “Wait, what happened?” stammered Ilya, “Everything was fine!” “Fine?” Marina smirked. “Sure, fine. Except—” She paused, struggling to find a way to explain… and eventually blurted out the honest truth: “Your socks stink! I cannot breathe that for the rest of my life!” “You actually said that?” gasped Marina’s mother when she announced she was withdrawing the wedding application. “Unbelievable!” “Why not?” shrugged the now ex-bride, “It’s true. Don’t tell me you never noticed it.” “I noticed, of course,” her mum admitted, embarrassed. “But that’s humiliating. I thought you loved him. He’s a nice guy. The socks—well, you can sort that.” “How? Teach him to wash his feet? Change socks? Use deodorant? Mum, listen to yourself! I was supposed to get married—to hide behind a man, not adopt an oversized child!” “Then why go so far? Why even put in the application?” “That’s on you, Mum! ‘Ilya’s a good lad—a kind soul. I really like him,’ your words! And these: ‘You’re twenty-seven. Time to get married and give me some grandchildren.’ Suddenly quiet, eh?” “Well, Marina darling, I didn’t think you were still unsure. I thought you two were serious,” Mum replied. “And I’m glad I didn’t misjudge you—you’ve thought it through and made your decision. But this ‘socks smell’—that’s a bit much. Doesn’t sound like you.” “I did it on purpose, Mum. In his language—so there’s no going back…” *** At first, Ilya seemed funny and a little clumsy to Marina. Always in jeans and the same T-shirt, not showing off about Picasso but able to talk for hours about old films. His eyes sparkled. He was easy and calm. That calmness drew in Marina, tired of dramatic relationships and chasing ‘the one’. Two months of cinema and cafés later, Ilya shyly invited her: “Want to come over? I’ll make you dumplings. Handmade!” So homey and warm—Marina’s heart skipped. The ‘handmade’ bit sealed the deal. She agreed. *** Ilya’s place underwhelmed Marina. No dirt, but chaos, tasteless and neglected. Grey walls without wallpaper, an old battered sofa with a single worn bolster instead of cushions. Boxes, books and old magazines scattered everywhere. Trainers in the middle. The air was stale, with dust and damp. It felt like a halfway house no one really lived in. “So, what do you think of my castle?” Ilya spread his arms, beaming with pride—completely oblivious to anything odd. Marina forced a smile; she liked him and didn’t want a row. The kitchen was no better—table with a fine layer of dust, sink full of dirty plates and cups with black stains, battered saucepan on the hob. Marina’s eye caught the kettle. “Wonder what colour that used to be?” she thought. Her mood sunk. Distractedly Marina listened to Ilya telling stories, trying to make her laugh. When he offered her a bowl of dumplings, she refused on grounds of being on a diet. No way was she eating anything made in that kitchen. Back home, Marina analysed the visit. On the surface, the mess was minor—so what, he lives alone and isn’t house proud. Big deal? But behind it all, Marina saw something deeper and unsettling. How can anyone live like that? Not just laziness… Ilya saw nothing wrong with it. A lingering bad feeling remained… *** Then Ilya visited Marina, officially proposed, gave her a ring. They filed the paperwork. Parents started preparing for the wedding. It was nice being a bride—but every time Marina found herself alone, thinking of Ilya making dumplings and telling jokes, the image of that grimy kettle popped into her mind. She realised: it wasn’t just a kettle. It was evidence—of Ilya’s attitude to life, to his home, to himself, and probably to her. One day, Marina pictured their future morning together and was horrified. She’d get up, see half-drunk tea and crumbs. Say, “Darling, can you tidy up?” and he’d look stunned, just like in his flat, not understanding. He wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t shout—he’d just… not get it. Every day she’d have to explain, clean up, remind him. And her love would die, slowly and surely, from a thousand tiny cuts he barely noticed. And her mum’s delighted she’s marrying. *** Married… All the warmth Marina felt with Ilya slowly dissolved, replaced by a heavy, sticky tension. “Marina,” Ilya asked anxiously almost every day, “We’re okay, right? We love each other?” “Of course,” she replied, feeling something inside her break. Eventually Marina couldn’t cope—she poured out her worries to her friend. “So what?” her friend Katya didn’t get it. “Dust, a kettle… My husband could leave a tank in the kitchen and never notice. Men just don’t see that stuff!” “Exactly! They don’t see it,” Marina whispered. “He’ll never see it. But I will—forever! It’ll kill me, slowly but surely!” *** No, she didn’t blame him. He’d never lied—only lived in a different world, where dishes in the sink were normal. For Marina, it signalled total incomprehension and indifference. It wasn’t even about cleanliness. It was about seeing the world differently, a fault line waiting to become a chasm. Better to end it now, than fall to the abyss years later. She waited for the right moment… *** Marina and Ilya were invited to a party. They arrived, took off their shoes in the hall… Entered the room… An awful stench followed them. Marina didn’t realise the source right away. But then she did—and so did everyone else. Burning with embarrassment, she dashed back to the hallway, dressed, and left. Ilya chased after her, grabbed her hand. She turned and threw it at him, almost with hatred: “Enough! The wedding is off!” *** No wedding happened. Marina believes she did the right thing and has no regrets. As for Ilya… He still doesn’t get it. What was the problem? So his socks stank? He could have just taken them off…

A Dreadful Aftertaste

Its over, there wont be a wedding! exclaimed Charlotte.

Wait, whats happened? stammered Oliver, baffled. Everything seemed fine!

Fine? Charlotte scoffed, her lips curling into a wry smile. Right, fine if you say so. The truth is She paused, smothered by a wild whirlwind of thoughts. Eventually, she blurted out the bare truth. Your socks stink, Oliver! I cannot spend my life breathing that in!

Did you really say that? gasped Charlottes mother when she heard about her daughters decision to withdraw the notice of intention to marry. Unbelievable!

Why? shrugged the former bride-to-be. Its just the truth. Dont tell me you never noticed.

Well, of course I noticed, her mother replied, flustered, but its humiliating. I thought you loved him. Hes a decent chap. Sockswell, that sort of thing can be fixed.

How? Teach him to wash his feet? Change his socks daily? Use foot spray? Mum! Listen to yourself! I was planning on getting marriedso I could lean on a man, not adopt a big boy and sort out his laundry!

Well, why did you go so far then? Why apply for the registrar?

That was all you, Mum! Olivers a good, kind lad. I really like himwerent those your words? And also, Youre nearly thirty, its about time you got married and gave me grandchildren. Why are you quiet now, hmm?

I didnt realise you still had doubts, darling, her mother retorted. I thought you two were seriousand Im glad you thought it through and decided. Only, darling, this stinky socks business is a bit much. Doesnt sound like you at all.

I did it on purpose, Mum. So there was no going back. Spoke in his language. Plain as day.

***

At first, Oliver had seemed charmingly awkward to Charlotte. He was always in denim jeans and that one faded t-shirt. He didnt wax lyrical about Turner or Shakespeare, but could talk endlessly about old movies, his blue eyes gleaming with excitement.

He was easy companyand calm.

That calmness drew Charlotte in, exhausted as she was from stormy relationships and endless searching for the one.

After two months of strolling through cinemas and sipping teas in little cafés, Oliver nervously offered, Would you like to come back to mine? Ill make you dumplings. Made them myself!

The invitation was so warm, so homely, that Charlottes heart gave a startled thump. Made them yourself?that, simply, bowled her over.

So she agreed.

***

Olivers flat was nothing like Charlotte had hoped.

The place wasnt dirty, but it was all chaos and blandnessa certain sad neglect hung there. Bare grey walls, a battered old sofa with a single bolster for a cushion. Piles littered the floorboxes, books, dog-eared magazines. Trainers dumped in the centre. And the airthick with dust and something musty.

It felt more like a stopover, a place nobody meant to stay but never quite left.

Well, what do you make of my castle? Oliver threw his arms out, grinning without a speck of embarrassment. He was proud! And, sincerely, he didnt see anything amiss.

Charlotte forced a weak smile. She liked him and didnt want to start an argument.

In the kitchen, things were not much better: a table dusted with a fine grey coat, the sink full of crusted mugs and plates, a battered pan languishing on the hob. Charlottes gaze drifted to the kettle.

I wonder what colour was that kettle? Charlotte mused internally.

Her mood plummeted.

Oliver chattered away, hoping to amuse her, but when he handed her a plate of dumplings, she refused, muttering something about a diet

There was no way shed eat anything made in that kitchen.

Back home, Charlotte picked apart her visit, detail by detail.

At first glance, everything shed seen had seemed trivial. So what? He lives alone. He struggles with domestic matters. So what?

But in that mess, Charlotte saw something much bigger: how could anyone live like this? Not out of laziness For him, this was normal!

Left a nasty aftertaste

***

Later, Oliver asked her over to his flat. This time, he proposed officially. He even gave her a ring. They filed the paperwork. The families started planning the wedding.

Being a fiancée felt lovely. But in lonely moments, when Charlotte thought of Oliveralways eager to please her, kneading his dumplings, telling his talesshe couldnt help but picture that strange-coloured kettle.

It was no ordinary kettle. It was evidence. It spoke volumes about Olivers approach to lifeto housework, to himself, very likely to her.

One morning, Charlotte imagined their life together: shed wake up, stumble into the kitchen to find cold tea and breadcrumbs from yesterdays toast. Darling, would you clear this up? shed ask, and he would give her that quizzical look, just as he did in his flat, not understanding at all. He wouldnt argue or shout. He just wouldnt get it. Every day, shed have to explain, tidy, remind. And her love would be nibbled away by a thousand little invisible cuts hed never notice.

Meanwhile, her mother was overjoyed at Charlottes impending marriage.

***

Marriage

All the lightness and warmth Charlotte felt with Oliver began to dissolve, gradually replaced by a thick, anxious malaise.

Charlotte, Oliver asked her nearly every day, peering anxiously into her eyes, Were all right, arent we? We love each other, dont we?

Of course, she replied, feeling something snap inside.

Finally, Charlotte couldnt take it and talked to her friend Emily, laying bare all her worries.

So what? Emily shrugged, baffled. A bit of dust, a kettle My husband could drive a lorry through the kitchen and not notice. Men dont see those things!

Exactly! They dont seeand Oliver never will, Charlotte whispered. But I will. Every single day. And itll murder me, slowly but surely.

***

No, she didnt blame him. Oliver was sincere, never once deceived her. He just lived in a different worlda world where grimy dishes in the sink was perfectly all right. For her, it was a flashing neon sign of misunderstanding and indifference.

It wasnt even about cleanliness, Charlotte knew. It was the way their perspectives so completely diverged. The tiny crack in her mind would, one day, become an unbridgeable chasm.

Better to end things now than look up years later and find herself at the bottom.

She waited for her moment

***

Charlotte and Oliver were invited to a party.

They arrived, took off their coats and shoes in the entrance hall.

Entered the sitting room

A foul odour floated in with them.

Charlotte didnt immediately realise where it came from.

Once she did, she saw that everyone else realised too. Embarrassed beyond words, she wanted nothing more than to melt into the carpet. Without a word, she dashed to the hall, got dressed and left.

Oliver sprinted after her, caught her hand. Turning to face him, she hurled the words with near-hatred:

Thats it! There will be no wedding!

***

No wedding did happen.

Charlotte is sure she made the right decision. She regrets nothing.

And Oliver

Hes still utterly baffled. What was the real issue, anyway? Stinky socks? He could just take them offLife tumbled forward, relentless as everno pause for heartbreak, no mercy for memories. Charlotte found, astonishingly, that relief bloomed where despair might have rooted. She didnt pine or gaze wistfully at old photos. Instead, she noticed colours returning to her days: the yellow mug she sipped from, the cobalt blue of her bedsheets, the scarlet geraniums on her windowsill. Home felt like sanctuary.

Her mother huffed over tea, muttering about missed chances and eligible bachelors, but even she, at last, relented. You seem lighter somehow, she admitted, a rare softness in her voice.

Charlotte smiled. I am.

There were moments, still, when her heart twinged. She saw a pair of battered trainers in a shop window and thought of Oliverof his crooked grin, his gentle jokes. But she knew better now. Shed chosen herself, chosen to fill her life with things that nourished rather than gnawed.

One drizzly evening, Charlotte strolled through her favourite café, book in hand, and noticed a young couple in the corner, laughing over spilled coffee and mismatched socks. There was joy there amid disorder, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if shed been too hasty. But when she caught her reflection in the windoweyes clear, face calmshe understood. Her heart was finally quiet.

She ordered a pastry, opened her book, and let the pages turn. Tomorrow would come, uncrowded and clean. And somewhere in the city, Oliver walked on, unconcerned, just as he always had. But Charlotte was already gonebraver, lighter, certain. She had learned: some aftertastes are warnings worth heeding. And some endings are the sweetest relief of all.