Yulia worships herself. To madness. Here she poses in the gym, laughs with friends in a bar, flashes at some corporate event… And then comes a fresh photo. In the morning.
For a moment her heart freezes—then it drops, plunging at full speed. Caption under the photo: “The perfect start to the day!”
She’s sitting in the kitchen—exactly the way I’ve already seen her in the corporate photos. In her hands, a mug. On her lips, a smile—lazy, contented catlike, just woken up.
She’s wearing a man’s shirt. Straight on her bare body. Buttoned only with one button—under the chest.
I recognize it instantly. Among a thousand. Among ten thousand. Grey, in a fine, almost invisible check. With a thin blue thread woven into the fabric. The very shirt I brought her husband from Milan three years ago.