[Setting: A cozy Moscow apartment in spring. The windows are open. A light breeze dances through the curtains.]
Sasha: (jumping up suddenly) Nikita! Are you trying to kill me? Close that window right now!
Nikita: (startled) What? Why? It’s finally warm outside! You were literally just complaining about how stuffy it was.
Sasha: That’s not the point! There’s a draft! Skvoznyak! Everyone knows drafts make you sick. You’ll catch pneumonia. Or worse.
Nikita: (laughs) Sasha, you do realize that’s not how colds work, right? Viruses make you sick. Not breezes.
Sasha: (crossing arms) Oh please. My babushka would spin in her grave if she heard you say that. She never let me sleep with a window cracked. One time, my cousin left the door open between rooms, and she made him sit in a scarf and hat indoors. Indoors!
Nikita: (grinning) That sounds more like a hostage situation than healthcare.
Sasha: (serious) You laugh, but the next day he was coughing. Coincidence? I think not.
Nikita: (walking over to close one window, leaving the other slightly open) Okay, okay, partial compromise. But listen, multiple studies show that fresh air actually reduces the spread of airborne viruses. You’re more likely to get sick in a sealed-up, dry, overheated apartment.
Sasha: Yeah? And did these studies account for my weak immune system and sensitive neck? (wraps scarf around neck dramatically)
Nikita: (chuckling) Your “sensitive neck” is not a scientific diagnosis.
Sasha: I’m telling you, the moment cool air touches the back of it—boom. Migraine. Sore throat. Sneezing like I’m in a birch forest in May.
Nikita: You sound like a walking superstition pamphlet.
Sasha: And yet, I’m rarely sick.
Nikita: You’re rarely sick because you drink rosehip tea like it’s a religion and you take enough vitamin C to power a citrus factory.
Sasha: Those help, yes. But I still say skvoznyak is dangerous. Remember Oleg from work? He sat between two open windows on the train. Two days later: sick leave. I’m telling you—proof!
Nikita: Correlation doesn’t equal causation. Maybe Oleg was already incubating a virus. Maybe he touched a dirty handrail and then rubbed his eyes.
Sasha: Or maybe he shouldn’t have let the evil breeze run through his soul!
Nikita: (laughs hard) “Evil breeze”? What is this, Slavic folklore? Should we hang garlic above the vent next?
Sasha: Don’t be ridiculous. Garlic is for vampires. For drafts, you need a good woolen blanket and an airtight seal.
Nikita: (pretending to take notes) “To defeat the evil breeze, one must layer like an onion and avoid all crosswinds.” Got it.
Sasha: Mock all you want. But when you’re sneezing tomorrow, don’t come crying to me.
Nikita: If I sneeze, I’ll take a COVID test. If it’s negative, I’ll blame your psychic neck.
Sasha: Deal. But if you do get sick, I’m bringing you hot kompot, and I’m not opening a single window.
Nikita: (smiling) Fine. But I’m installing an air purifier and a thermometer in here. Science and superstition, side by side.
Sasha: Like a proper Russian household.
[They both laugh, and the wind gently flutters the curtain—quietly defiant.]
End Scene
Science Vs Superstition 
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