His Fiancée by Sofia Kolbasovskaya

His fiancée Maya died
but people couldn’t tell looking at his face, something so tragic, catastrophic touched him – smooth, gentle mouth with a hint of a pleasant smile and warm eyes suggesting you sweet calm. He listens. He listens to his sisters, his friends, his neighbors, his colleagues, his clients. People don’t stop telling him, telling his bright, affectionate figure, which radiates peaceful power, as that and this, bothered and hurt them. 
His big arms of a hard-working man, which can break things without an effort, can give you the gentlest handshake. He shakes hands countless times due to his high respectable work-place, and each person, who gives him back that one of the countless handshakes could recognize his hand composed with his soft touch and the thin silver ring on his huge finger.
The little ring is looking funny on his not little hand, and it is chip which becomes visible in contrast of his expensive work suit, but he doesn’t take it away from his hand. Not everyone knows about Maya but some people gossip like: she committed blood-curdling suicide because she stopped loving him; she committed blood-curdling suicide because she loved him; she cheated on him and run away (that was the popular one); she run away without cheating him. He doesn’t seem to care: people talk and he listens – that the way it is, the goodwill, but he remembers. Maya smiling with her jagged teeth, or Maya being angry with him, Maya cooking something while she hates cooking anything, Maya looking at him with surprise when he presents the ring, as he can see in her eyes she knew that coming, because she knew about things, and she knew her answer.
His schedule is simple. He wakes up in the morning, goes to the cold work and comes back home in the evening. The earth is dark and his nice house is dark too. He goes to the fridge and takes his beer. Taking one sip, then removes the ring from his hand, and there is a red mark. He puts his ring on the kitchen shelf from which he will take it on the next morning, and goes to the basement. He opens the door of the basement with another sip, leans on it looking at the withered mass of bones and cloth located on the green sofa. It forms a woman figure and some parts have surreal, alluring shine in the moonlight. The air is sick.
– Hello, darling, I’m home.