Scene: A cozy Moscow apartment. It’s raining outside. Yulia walks in, shaking off her wet coat. Ivan is at the table sipping tea.
Yulia: (groaning) Ugh, this rain just won’t let up! My shoes are soaked.
Ivan: (grinning) Welcome to autumn in Moscow. At least you made it in one piece.
Yulia: Barely. My umbrella flipped twice like a pancake in a hurricane.
(She opens her umbrella indoors to let it dry.)
Ivan: (gasps and nearly drops his tea) Yulia! What are you doing?! You cannot open an umbrella indoors!
Yulia: (looks around) What? Why not?
Ivan: It’s bad luck! Everyone knows that. You want to curse this apartment? Or both of us?
Yulia: Ivan, seriously? That’s just an old superstition.
Ivan: Just? Just? My babushka opened an umbrella in her hallway once and the ceiling fan fell the next day. Coincidence? I think not.
Yulia: So… her ceiling fan was probably just hanging on for dear life, and the umbrella had nothing to do with it.
Ivan: That’s what you say. But there are patterns, Yulia! Haven’t you noticed? Every time someone does something weird indoors—open an umbrella, spill salt, whistle at night—something bad follows.
Yulia: Okay, let me ask you this: if opening umbrellas inside is so dangerous, why doesn’t IKEA or Decathlon issue public warnings? “Do not test indoors, may summon doom”?
Ivan: Because they don’t want lawsuits. Or maybe they just don’t know how deep the curse goes.
Yulia: (laughs) So now there’s a secret umbrella curse conspiracy?
Ivan: Don’t mock it! These things have been passed down for generations. You think all those people were wrong?
Yulia: I think people look for meaning in random events. If you stub your toe after opening an umbrella, your brain goes, “Aha! The curse!” But if nothing happens, you forget all about it.
Ivan: That sounds suspiciously like logic.
Yulia: Guilty. Look, I get it—it feels comforting to follow traditions. My mom still tells me not to sit at the corner of a table or I’ll stay unmarried forever. I sit there on purpose now.
Ivan: And look at you—still unmarried.
Yulia: Touché. But that’s by choice! Anyway, back to the umbrella—I opened it inside, and you’re still alive. The ceiling is intact. No black cats have burst through the window.
Ivan: (eyes the umbrella warily) Yet. Give it time.
Yulia: You know, if umbrellas really brought bad luck indoors, meteorologists would be the most cursed people in Russia. Have you seen their studio props?
Ivan: Now you’re just trying to be clever.
Yulia: Always. But seriously, if it helps you feel better, I’ll close it. Not because I believe in curses—because I respect your peace of mind.
Ivan: (softens) That’s fair. I know I sound like a broken record sometimes, but some of these beliefs just… stick. They remind me of home, of my grandma, of childhood. Even if I can’t explain them.
Yulia: I get that. As long as we can laugh about them, I’m fine. Just promise me you won’t start throwing salt over your shoulder every five minutes.
Ivan: Only if you promise not to break any mirrors this week.
Yulia: Deal. But I am walking under that ladder outside tomorrow. Let’s see if the universe notices.
Ivan: Brave woman. If your phone screen cracks, don’t come crying to me.
Yulia: I’ll just blame the rain.
Science Vs Superstition 
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