Han Ong

It got so hot in the house that the little glass panes in the windows wept with condensation, cleaning themselves as well.

Everything was ready to go.

They had even steamed the birch switches.

And then it occurred to them, where would the lodger go?

Even the goat was freezing in the yard.

How could they kick him out?

You couldn't hide him in the stove.

He'd burn up.

The house didn't have separate areas, and there were no walls, only a hiding place behind the stove.

He wouldn't dare to look from behind there.

Then they left.

What would this stud want with our old bones?

They put Boris Ivanovich behind the stove and strung up a curtain.

He sat there with a book, but he didn't read.

The lamplight was hardly brighter than a candle.

He could have moved it closer, but instead of reading, he listened to what the old women talked about in the bath.

At first, they joked about how they'd grown so dry that the dirt didn't stick to them anymore.

Then Zinaida said that they had even stopped stinking.

When they were young, they'd smelled like pussy, but now it was just dust and mold.

Finally the washing began.