The temporary apartment had two bedrooms but only one uncracked refrigerator shelf. Irena divided it with paper tape. Her side on the left, Milan's on the right. They had ended up sharing accommodation after the owner of their old building sold the apartments before their new agreements were ready. They knew each other from the hallway, enough to greet but not enough to know who left a wet cloth on the sink.
The first week involved small negotiations. Milan listened to the radio over breakfast; Irena worked at night and slept late. She left shoes by the door; he arranged his neatly but lost his keys. They weren't young students who considered disorder freedom. Both were forty-five, with habits hardened through years of living independently. They argued politely, in sentences beginning with requests and ending in sighs.
One evening, the power failed. Irena emerged with a dying laptop, Milan with undercooked pasta. They found a candle, opened canned beans, and ate at the small table previously used only for bills. Irena discussed an old job she missed more than her former husband. Milan admitted never understanding why people assumed a quiet man had nothing to say.
Afterwards, they stopped cooking separately every evening. Milan learned to turn off the radio before she woke, and Irena moved her shoes when she knew he was carrying bags. They didn't keep accounts of concessions. When the moving date arrived, both reacted too cheerfully. Milan immediately sought boxes. Irena spent the evening browsing furniture shops, although she already had enough of everything except reasons to remain in the living room.
Three days before leaving, they kissed while dividing leftover food. Milan then asked whether they should abandon the new apartments. Irena felt how easy that would be and how quickly it might make theirs a relationship carried by affordable rent. She said she wanted to move and discover whether they chose each other when they could close their own doors. Milan was disappointed but admitted wanting the same answer.
On the first Saturday after moving, he invited her to dinner. She came without slippers or complaints about the radio. Milan made pasta that wasn't hard this time. A small piece of paper tape from their old refrigerator lay on the table. Irena picked it up, crumpled it, and threw it away. "We aren't dividing leftovers tonight," she said. After dinner, she stayed because she wanted to, then returned to her apartment in the morning to water plants and enjoy quiet that no longer meant loneliness.