There used to be a Hungarian woman who lived in our building; her name was Rozalia and she was always grubby and unkempt, her flat was untidy, you couldn’t see anything through her windows because of the layer of grime on the glass, she hardly ever cooked a hot meal, her hair was always all over the place, her eyes were runny, and yet her husband adored her.
And do you know why?
Because she was always willing to jump into bed with him. He used to come home straight after work, while my Milosav always arrived at midnight, because I had neither the time nor the inclination to continually jump into bed with him.
Rozalia lived happily and died happily, or rather one morning she woke up dead–when her husband put his arm round her to wake her with a kiss, he saw …
He gave her a beautiful funeral, and a month later they buried him at her side.