In a furniture showroom, Lana and Boris were choosing a table for their future apartment. He discussed the number of guests; she discussed the color of the wood. Boris had a successful company, a gentle voice and a habit of leaving her the final say. They planned to become engaged as soon as the apartment purchase was complete.
Davor, a photographer and her occasional lover, came through a side entrance. He knew nothing about Boris. Seeing her beside a fabric sample, he approached with a smile and kissed her like a man entitled to familiar tenderness. Lana kissed him back before her eyes reached Boris.
Boris put down the catalog. She quickly explained that Davor greeted friends that way. It sounded bad as soon as she said it. Davor stepped back, realizing he had been transformed into a man with unusual customs. He said he would leave them and went out before managing to ask anything else.
That evening, Lana offered Boris a tidier version. Davor was an old friend, confused, perhaps still in love with her. She did not want to hurt him. Boris listened and asked just one question: did this friend know that she and Boris were together? She said he did. It was a new lie, spoken to protect the previous one.
Two days later, the men met at an exhibition opening. Boris approached Davor without a threat. They spoke briefly, long enough to discover that neither was in the relationship that had been described to him. When Lana arrived, they were standing by a window with expressions that left no room for another improvisation.
She expected an argument. Instead, Boris returned her key and said he was stopping the purchase. Davor asked whether she would finally speak for herself without explaining his intentions for him. She admitted feeling secure with one man and excited with the other. She had never asked whether they accepted that arrangement.
She stayed with neither. Months later, when a friend tried turning the incident into a story about two jealous men, Lana stopped her. They had not competed. They had withdrawn. That fact hurt because it did not allow her to consider herself a prize over which other people had lost their minds.
She bought a small table for her own apartment, secondhand and scratched. One morning, she sat at it and wrote two apologies without requesting a reply. Then she made coffee and sat by the window. For the first time, she was not waiting for a message confirming she was desirable enough to be forgiven for everything she had not said.