Fatal mistake

I cleaned the apartment with Stakhanovite speed:

Order in the hallway, mirrors gleaming bright,

Frying pans and pots polished to a shine,

Chairs stand in a circle round the table, just right.

The vacuum ran over armchairs and the bedspread,

The carpet on the floor was treated with a compound.

In a neat stack lie: a bedsheet and a duvet.

Two newspapers and books on the corner table mound.

The kitchen tiles shine like a New Year's ice rink.

It wouldn't be a shame to pick a piece off the parquet.

For two weeks I lived single, free to think,

But the time has come to meet my wife today.

We returned home with flowers, all proper and neat,

We each had a couple glasses of wine.

I watched the evening news on "Russia," my seat,

Learning what my native land was crafting, line by line,

When a deafening cry from the bathroom rang out,

So loud the drowsy neighborhood awoke.

"A fatal mistake," I realized, breaking a sweat, "no doubt,

I wouldn't have made it as a front-line camouflage bloke."

My wife presented me a brush with hairs.

A sultry rainbow of passion played with hues:

Dark auburn, black ones curled in waves,

The palette held all tones and shades it could use.

I burned, a gawking fool — a stupid, snotty boy,

Though I wasn't lazy to prepare with care:

I scrubbed off mascara, lipstick with excessive force,

Carried bottles to the collection point all day, I swear.

I messed up on the bathroom. Got caught with the hairs.

I forgot about the combs. Brought it to disaster...

Luckily, I froze some ice. In large, cold squares

I'm rubbing the places where the rolling pin left its plaster.