After her daughter got married, Mrs Moraru wanted to divorce Mr Moraru. But she didn’t divorce him, even though She dreamed of it her whole life. All the love between them drained away like an egg yolk. Then they started to get old And they started developing ailments. And she couldn’t live without love. Mr Moraru became very selfish. And he had only one thing on his mind: How to save his skin and live as long as possible. And all day long he hung around on polyclinic corridors Like in a forest, forgetting all about Mrs Moraru And not doing anything around the house anymore and abandoning Mrs Moraru To manage on her own. When Mr Moraru died I went with her To the office of the director of the Doina Cemetery And he asked her obliquely: Would you like to reserve a burial plot next to your husband’s? and Mrs Moraru declined. At the time I thought that she’d been offended by the blunt, cynical question put by the cemetery director, a man who, all the while he talked to us, kept making a chomping sound with his teeth, although he didn’t happen to be eating. Then, a year later, when Mrs Moraru died and was buried at the other end of the cemetery about a kilometre away from Mr Moraru I understood why she had refused to buy a burial plot next to her husband’s. Finally, they were divorced.