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John’s house didn’t stand out among the same dreary boxes—single-story, with peeling blue paint and a front yard overgrown with weeds. A thin trail of oil stretched from the old pickup truck parked by the driveway, and footprints, stomped into the dirt, were visible on the path leading to the door. A typical American working man’s home, where everything looked sturdy on the outside but was rotting from within—worn down by endless stress, cheap beer, and a fading family flame.
I stood on the cracked concrete porch, clutching a basket with a pie in my sweaty hands. The blue dress with straps clung to my hips against my will—every movement made the fabric slide over my skin, reminding me of how, just a week ago, Marek’s fingers had dug into these very hips. I’m the one who picked this dress, I scolded myself mentally, adjusting the neckline. The straps cut into my shoulders, leaving red marks—just like that time when Stephanie tried on a similar dress in a thrift store, and I laughed, pointing at her "bony little shoulders."
— Polya, what’s up with you? — Marek nudged me in the side with his elbow, making me flinch. — Relax, John’s a great guy.
I automatically adjusted the dress strap that had slipped from his "touch" and nodded obediently.
Marek knocked on the door. From inside, muffled voices and footsteps sounded, and a moment later, the door swung open abruptly.
John Smith appeared on the threshold—a gaunt, exhausted worker with dull eyes and three-day-old stubble. In a wrinkled gray tank top and work jeans, he looked like he had just rolled off the couch, barely holding a beer bottle in his hand. His sunken eyes slid over Marek, then down to my heels.
— Holy shit, Marek! — He burst out laughing, slamming his fist against the doorframe. — You keep getting taller and bigger every time! What the hell do you guys eat in Poland, huh? Concrete?
Marek just smirked, shrugging, while my fingers dug into the woven handle of the basket.
— And who’s this? — John leaned in toward me, exposing his yellow teeth. His gaze crawled over my cleavage like a fat fly. — You said your wife’s a housekeeper. But this one is… — he whistled, and something cold twisted inside me. He looked me up and down, lingered on my waist, slid over my breasts… and his lips curled into a strange smirk. Shit, he’s sizing me up. My hand instinctively reached for Marek, clutching his bicep as if seeking protection. Why the hell do I feel so uncomfortable? I felt like a fawn being stared down by a predator. It was disgusting.
— John, this is my Apolonia. Polya, say hi to the boss. — Marek casually wrapped an arm around my shoulders, his fingers resting on my arm—and oddly enough, it helped.
I opened my mouth, but only a mumble escaped my throat. The English words tangled in my mind, turning into mush—like someone had ripped out half my brain.
— Hello, miło cię poznać…
— Oh, fuck, she doesn’t understand shit! — John snorted, cutting me off, then smirked. — Marek, come on, man, where’d you find this fairy? In a doll shop? Polya, right? You get what I’m saying, yeah? I just gave you a badass compliment.
— She understands. — Marek gently pulled his hand away, but his fingers dug into John’s shoulder so hard the guy paled. — My wife is learning the language. Step by step.
— Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m still your boss, don’t forget that. — He stepped back into the house, gesturing for us to come in. — Klara! We got guests! And Mari, drag your ass down here!
The stench of rancid oil and mold hit my nose. I instinctively covered my mouth with my hand—a habit formed after a month of cleaning at the school. The entryway was drowning in piles of torn-up sneakers and empty energy drink cans. A crookedly pinned-up photograph hung on the wall—John, about twenty years ago, flexing biceps and lacking a beer gut, had his arm around a young woman with a nervous smile, presumably Klara.
— Polya, — Marek’s voice was quiet as he touched my back, his gaze shifting toward the stairs. — You okay?
I nodded, feeling sweat gathering under my dress. A faint, hesitant voice came from deeper in the house:
— Yeah, yeah, I’m coming…
— MARI! — John barked, chucking his empty bottle into the trash. — Get the fuck out here, princess! Show yourself to our guests!
— Fuck off! — came a muffled, hoarse response from upstairs. The voice—strained, rough—but there was something oddly familiar in the tone. My fingers instinctively clutched Marek’s hand.
— Did you hear that?! — John’s face flushed with rage as he grabbed a belt off the table. — I’ll show her what “fuck off” means!
Marek gently pulled me into a hug, his palm resting calmly on my shoulder, and that strange yet warm touch gave me a bit of confidence. Like I could be someone else—not this trembling creature in an uncomfortable dress, who wished she were anywhere but here, among these people. I felt his strength, his quiet self-assurance, and it soothed me a little. But deep inside, there was unease—I couldn’t shake the feeling that none of this… was mine.
Finally, a woman emerged from the kitchen, shuffling nervously in worn-out slippers across the linoleum. Klara Smith—a woman with dead eyes and a pale face, dark circles beneath them, and thin lips permanently twisted into an apologetic grimace. Her polka-dot dress hung on her like a sack, emphasizing her sunken breasts and sharp shoulders. Her hands, red from hot water, nervously fidgeted with an apron stained with soup.
— Johnny, please… She’s just a teenager…
— Shut the fuck up! — John threw the belt onto the floor, spitting with rage. — It’s your damn parenting! A snake pit, not a family!
What a nightmare. Thank God my Marek isn’t like that. I tightened my grip on the pie, which suddenly felt unbearably heavy. My fingers trembled, pressing into the woven handle of the basket. My Marek. The thought made something flutter inside me—warm and unsettling at the same time. A month ago, I would’ve exploded with anger at words like that. Now… Now I just adjusted my dress without thinking, as if it were natural.
— Polya, — Marek’s voice was soft as he touched my back, and I instinctively straightened up. — Help Klara in the kitchen?
His voice sounded like an order, but there was that same quiet care in it—just like yesterday when he held me after my breakdown. I nodded, avoiding his gaze. Why the fuck am I obeying and going to the kitchen like some housewife?! The thought flashed through my mind, but my body was already moving after Klara.
The kitchen smelled of burnt oil and despair. Klara bustled around the stove, her hands nervously shifting dirty dishes. I set the pie on the table, noticing how her eyes darted to the doorway—as if checking if John was there.
— Dziękuję… — she mumbled, and I was surprised to hear Polish. Her accent was terrible, but it struck a chord.
— Proszę… — I answered automatically. My voice sounded unnaturally soft.
Loud male laughter rang out from the other room—John and Marek were clearly talking about something amusing. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was the topic of their conversation. Klara glanced at the doorway before hesitantly handing me a plate of salad. Her fingers trembled as she tried to arrange the cucumber slices, already shriveled from the mayonnaise. I took it easily, feeling a strange sense of obligation to help her.
— You… help? — Klara nodded toward the oven, where chicken drumsticks were starting to burn.
I nodded and quickly moved to the oven, slipping into that familiar rhythm of cooking. But this time, it felt different—like I wanted to show off my skills, to support this woman in some way. Who knew what she had been through… Compared to her, my troubles suddenly felt small. The heat blasted my face, making me blink.