Inside smelled of oak, varnish and fresh sawdust. On the walls were hung, the rows and saws, each in its place. In one corner there was a small stove, and next to it a narrow bed that Vasile used to rest when he worked late.
He turned on the light, left his coat on a chair and sat at the workbench.
In front of him was a walnut wooden box, almost finished. He was doing it for Denis, as a gift for graduating from the first year of college. On the lid carved an oak branch, and inside it was going to put a set of technical drawing tools.
He passed with his fingers over the smooth wood.
And then, for the first time that evening, he started crying.
He wasn’t crying because he was leaving the party. Not because he had faced his wife.
He was crying for the eighteen years he was convinced that he didn’t deserve better.
