My wife, Tonya, and I have been living as husband and wife for a whole year now. My name is Igor, and I'm thirty-two. My wife, Tonya, is only twenty-seven. There's a five-year age difference between us, but we don't feel it at all. I don't feel older, and she doesn't feel younger. We're just living. After my grandmother died, I inherited her one-room apartment in an old panel building. That's where Tonya and I are living. My wife doesn't want to have children yet. She keeps telling me that first we need to get back on our feet, pay off the loans, and do some renovations. Well, I'm not rushing her. I understand her concerns, so I don't bring it up myself, so as not to put unnecessary pressure on her. Tonya and I met under somewhat odd circumstances. She came to work for a new assistant. Our team was mostly male, and almost everyone was married. Tonya was young, vibrant, and immediately attracted attention. But she ignored the advances of single colleagues her age, turning up her nose at their advances. But for some reason, she started showing signs of affection towards me after just a month of working there. Our first date was entirely her initiative. She was the one who suggested going to a movie after work. She was the one who insisted that we start dating. And ultimately, our wedding and decision to move in together were also her idea. From an early age, I wasn't a particularly active or decisive person. I always found it easier to listen and follow directions than to come up with ideas, take responsibility, and lead others. Having such an energetic and goal-oriented wife has always been a big plus, not a minus. She's younger, more up-to-date on current trends, technology, and fashion. In many ways, she became my guide to the modern world. My parents were overjoyed that I finally settled down and got married. Her parents were calm about our marriage, even distant. As I gathered from snatches of conversation, Tonya wasn't the favorite in their large family; she was somewhere in the middle, and didn't receive much attention. There was one incident, back when we were just dating and in full swing preparing for the wedding. Tonya had practically moved in with me. One day, she called me from work and asked me to urgently find her birth certificate and take a photo. It should have been in one of the boxes with her things that were standing in the corner of the room. I started looking. While sorting through the papers, I came across a stack of letters. They were tied with ordinary twine. My gaze slid to the top envelope, and I saw the return address: Colony No.... I felt a little uneasy, but I didn't pay it any mind. I did my job - found the certificate, took a photo, and sent it to her. I began carefully putting everything back. And again my fingers came across those letters. There were at least ten of them. All of them were addressed to Tonya, and the sender was listed as a certain Valery V. Curiosity overcame my upbringing. I glanced around, as if someone might see me in the empty apartment, and untied the string. I pulled out the first letter I came across. It was handwritten, in a scrawling, uneven handwriting, as if the man hadn't held a pen in a long time. I began to read. And with each line, I felt worse. A man named Valery described how he missed Tonya, how he looked forward to seeing her again. He described in detail, with brutal physiological details, what he would do to her when she came to see him again. He recalled their previous meeting, her "tender, warm mouth" and "hot vagina." Then came lines about how he might soon be released on parole. And that perhaps their next meeting would take place outside, in another, more pleasant place. And he dreamed about how she would finally be able to fully enjoy his sausage, which reminded him of her every morning and evening. I'd heard stories like that, about girls corresponding with prisoners. But for me, it was the stuff of urban legends, the stuff of crime reports. I'd never experienced it firsthand. And here was my future wife, my fiancée, my closest friend. There was a date at the end of the letter. It had been written just two weeks ago. The most idiotic and terrifying thoughts crept into my head. But I immediately began to reproach myself. I realized how vile and base it was to delve into the past of someone I loved, to read her personal letters. I decided it was just a dark page in her biography, a strange infatuation that had long since faded. Perhaps she'd simply corresponded with him out of the foolishness of her youth and now forgotten all about it. I carefully folded the letters back, trying to recreate everything as it had been, and put the box back. I forced myself to think about something else, about the upcoming wedding, the guest list, how much money I still needed to find. And gradually the unpleasant aftertaste from what I had read dissolved, and I tried to put the letters themselves out of my head. Having taken out a sizeable bank loan, we had a lavish wedding. We treated all our relatives and friends to a feast. Tonya had a large number of guests, including boisterous girlfriends, numerous siblings, and a whole host of extended family. Mine was more modest: a few friends from college, my parents, and a couple of aunts and uncles. We had a great time, and after the wedding, our lives went on as usual. Almost nothing changed, except for the stamp in our passports and our new status. We lived happily ever after, rarely arguing. We even went to Sochi for our inexpensive but very happy vacation. And then, as autumn approached, Tonya broke the news to me one evening. She said her uncle would soon be visiting us. His name is Valera. He's a polar explorer by profession, working shifts somewhere far up north, and because of his work, he couldn't come to our wedding. Now he's on a short vacation, and he wants to visit his beloved niece for a week. Of course, I wasn't opposed. I always enjoy having guests, especially my wife's relatives. However, the immediate question was: where would he sleep? Our one-room apartment wasn't designed for guests. I asked Tonya about it. She thought for a moment, then waved her hand, saying we'd figure it out somehow. We had an old folding bed that I sometimes slept on at friends' dachas. All in all, the problem seemed solvable. Our apartment was a typical Khrushchev-era building. A small hallway leading to a combined living room and bedroom, a separate kitchen about seven meters long, and a separate bathroom. After my grandmother died, I hadn't renovated it, and the furnishings remained from her time: an old wall unit, bookshelves, a Viennese chair, and the sofa bed where Tonya and I slept. There were no doors between the rooms, only wide arched openings. All our money had gone toward the wedding, and the rest hung on us in the form of monthly mortgage payments. So renovations were just a dream. On the day of Uncle Valera's arrival, which was Friday, Tonya and I set the festive table. Tonya said her uncle was a simple, stern man, and the only alcoholic drink he appreciated was good vodka. And I must say, I can't stand vodka. I like sweet liqueurs, wines, and sometimes beer. Vodka, to me, is simply a bitter, scalding liquid. But what wouldn't you do for a dear guest? We bought several bottles of expensive vodka and, in my case, a couple of bottles of semi-sweet champagne. Tonya looked especially stunning that day. She'd run to the salon that morning, had her hair done, and then spent a long time in the bathroom. She'd put on her best dress—an elegant, black, form-fitting one. She'd applied makeup. She was dazzling. I'd only seen her this beautiful on our wedding day. A strange thought stirred within me: had she really missed her uncle so much that she'd transformed herself into a queen for his arrival? She'd talked a lot about him. She'd said he was much closer to her than her own father. That in childhood, when her parents weren't paying attention to her, it was Uncle Valera who'd paid attention to her, given her gifts, and taken her fishing. That she absolutely adored him and missed him terribly. Exactly at the appointed time, the doorbell rang. I approached and peered through the peephole. Standing on the landing was a man who perfectly fit the image of a "polar explorer." Tall, very broad-shouldered, with a thick, luxuriant beard. His face was serious, even stern, with fine wrinkles around his eyes. I opened the door. “Hello, come in,” I said. He looked me over silently, appraisingly. He looked to be about forty-five or fifty. He was wearing an expensive, well-made jacket with a fur hood, even though it was a warm autumn day. A small travel backpack was slung over his shoulder. The image was complete. This was exactly how I imagined a stern northern worker. "Uncle Valeraaaaaa!" Tony's joyful cry came from behind me. She practically flew out of the apartment and jumped on the guest, wrapping her arms around his neck. He caught her, gave her a tight, bear-like hug, and loudly kissed her on the lips. — Tonya, my dear niece! Finally! I've missed you so much! They walked into the apartment, completely oblivious to my existence. I remained standing in the hallway, feeling like an outsider. They chatted about how he got here, how he was met at the airport, how he'd wandered around looking for our house. Uncle Valera asked where he could wash his hands, and I showed him the way to the restroom. While he was there, I approached Tonya. She was beaming, her cheeks flushed. “Tonya, you didn’t even introduce me to him,” I said quietly. "Oh, really!" she slapped herself on the forehead. "Sorry, I was so overwhelmed with joy. I'll introduce you right away, as soon as it's done." We sat at the table and waited. Soon the bathroom door opened, and Uncle Valera came out. He took off his warm jacket and sweater. Underneath was a simple gray short-sleeved T-shirt. And now I could clearly see his strength. He wasn't just big, he was pumped up. Biceps, triceps, shoulders—everything was toned. And his arms, neck, and the part of his chest visible beneath the neckline of his T-shirt were covered in tattoos. Black and white, and clearly prison tattoos. An entire story was depicted on his body, one I couldn't and didn't want to read. It's strange, I thought, that polar explorers have the same tattoos as criminals? When he sat down at the table, Tonya finally introduced us. "Uncle Valera, this is my husband, Igor. Igor, this is my favorite uncle, Valery." “Nice to meet you,” I nodded. "So, Igor," Uncle Valera drawled, his face breaking into a grin. "Well, hello, hello. So, you're the daredevil who got his hands on my beautiful niece? Aha-ha-ha!" His laughter was loud and a little frightening. Tonya described him as kind, caring, almost like a second father. But in front of me sat a cynical, rude, and very self-confident lout. He looked down on me, literally and physically. But, remembering how much Tonya loved him, I tried my best to please him. I diligently served at the table, refilled his salads, sliced bread, and topped up his shot. I tried to make conversation. "You know, Uncle Valera, you have very interesting tattoos," I began, wanting to pay him a compliment. "Do they mean anything? Is there a story behind them?" I couldn't even guess what his answer would be. His face darkened in an instant. He didn't scream. He clenched his huge fist and slammed it down on the table with all his might. The plates clanged and the forks jumped. "You have no right to ask me such questions!" he hissed quietly, but with such force that goosebumps ran down my spine. "Understand?" I felt truly scared. I immediately fell silent, lowered my eyes, and didn't say another word. Tonya, as if she hadn't noticed anything, continued chattering cheerfully. She told him about work, new films, some gossip. She was trying her best. "Tonechka, come here, sit on my lap," Uncle Valera said suddenly, and a strange, saccharine note suddenly appeared in his voice. "I've missed you so much. Just like the good old days, remember?" “Of course I remember, Uncle Valera,” Tonya responded immediately. She stood up and sat on his lap. He immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, and his large hand settled on her bottom, caressing it lightly and habitually. “This is what I’ve been dreaming about all these long months,” he whispered, but I heard him perfectly. “Thank you, dear, for taking old Uncle in. You didn’t let him get bored. Because there, at the end of the world, there’s nothing to see except penguins and polar bears!” And he laughed again. Tonya joined in. I sat there, smiling stupidly, feeling like a complete idiot. Perhaps they have such a peculiar, playful relationship. Maybe it’s their family tradition – this kind of banter. I tried to calm myself down. Uncle Valera had already had a fair amount to drink; one bottle of vodka was almost empty, but it didn't show. He was completely sober, with only a slight flush on his cheekbones. Tonya drank with him, but little by little, half a glass at a time. However, that was enough to make her cheeks flush and her eyes moist and sparkling. I, for my part, had drained a good portion of my bottle of champagne. Overall, the atmosphere at the table seemed pleasant. Tonya sat on his lap, swaying slightly, as if by accident. Uncle Valera seemed to enjoy it. He whispered something in her ear, and they both began to laugh, their own secret laughter. Not to be left out, I grinned stupidly too, even though I hadn't heard a single joke. I was simply trying to be part of this group. It was already past midnight, closer to one. Everyone was quite tired and tipsy. I noticed that Uncle Valera's hand was no longer simply resting on Tonya's bottom; he was actively groping it, squeezing it. Every now and then, his fingers slid down her thighs and slid under the hem of her dress. I looked away. I told myself, "Don't be jealous. This is her uncle. He probably still sees her as that girl. These are such strange, but harmless family jokes." But deep down, I saw something else. I saw my young, beautiful wife. And I saw a huge, bearded man covered in bukvoeb.run tattoos brazenly and openly making out with her right at the family table. And not only did she not resist, she showed with her whole appearance that she enjoyed it. "Well, it's time for bed," Uncle Valera announced, interrupting my agonizing thoughts. "And where will you, masters, place me for the night?" And again, those strange, sweet, almost loving notes sounded in his voice. I looked at Tonya. She looked down, embarrassed, and remained silent, shifting her fork from one place to another. "We have a folding bed," I offered. "We can make it up for you here in the kitchen. There seems to be enough space." "Oh, how hospitable you are!" Uncle Valera drawled sarcastically. "My own uncle, who rushed from the ends of the earth, and on a camp bed? I didn't expect that from you, my dear relatives." “Well, Uncle Valera,” I tried to justify myself, “we only have one room, and Tonya and I sleep there...” "Do you remember, Tonechka," he interrupted me, turning to his wife, "how we used to sleep together? In the country house, remember?" "Yes, Uncle Valera," Tonya smiled shyly. "But I was very little then." "Little, not little..." He stared dreamily at the ceiling. "And it feels like it happened yesterday. Okay, I won't keep you in suspense. Go get your camp bed. Just keep in mind, I've had intercostal neuralgia for a while now, I'm an old man, sick, ever since I landed awkwardly on the ice floe. I hope it doesn't hurt." I went and got the folding bed. While I was unfolding it, Tonya quickly cleared it from the table. Then she put sheets on our bed in the living room and came over to me. "Igor, go to bed, you're tired," she said. "And I'll sit with Uncle a little longer. We haven't seen each other in so long, we have a lot to talk about. We used to chat all night long." I didn't object. I was genuinely tired—both physically and mentally. I lay down on my side of the bed, facing the wall. Their muffled whispers came from the kitchen. I couldn't make out the words, only Uncle Valera's deep, throaty voice and Tonya's quiet, ingratiating remarks. The whispers lulled me to sleep. I began to drift off. Sometimes this thing happens to me: when you're almost asleep, your body suddenly jerks, as if you're falling from a height, and you wake up. Abruptly and completely. That's exactly what happened to me. I lay with my eyes open in complete darkness. The first thing I realized was that Tonya wasn't next to me. Her side of the bed was empty and cold. And the next moment, the whispers from the kitchen gave way to other sounds. Strange, unfamiliar, but eerily familiar. They were the sounds of love. Quiet, intermittent, passionate breathing. The dull, rhythmic creak of an old folding bed. Muffled groans, escaping through clenched teeth. I froze, becoming one big ear. My heart began pounding so hard that it seemed its beat could be heard throughout the entire apartment. I slowly, centimeter by centimeter, raised myself up on my elbow and looked through the arched doorway toward the kitchen. Thank you for reading to the end, I’m just starting to write, this story from the past has been tormenting my soul for a long time.