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Як вона могла? І зі мною зустрічалася і з ним? Я її кохаю, а вона!...Чому не сказала?

Published on Oct 22, 2026

Марат Лукинович

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1boy, solo, adult man, short hair, light brown hair, disheveled hair, tousled hair, messy hair, grey eyes, blood on face, glasses, broken glasses, cracked lenses, dark grey suit, unbuttoned jacket, suit jacket, mud stains, dirty clothes, white shirt, blood stains, black necktie, loose tie, black shoes, walking, cowboy shot, from side, profile, wet, rain, autumn, street, overcast, puddle, looking ahead, tired expression, half-closed eyes Seen in three-quarter side view from slightly below eye level, a lone man in his early thirties walks left-to-right across a rain-slicked street, caught mid-stride with his weight driving through the right leg as the left heel peels off the wet asphalt; his torso leans a little into the walk, shoulders collapsed forward, chin drawn down so the gray eyes look ahead and down the street past the camera rather than at the viewer. His short light-brown hair is tousled and plastered flat in strands by the rain, sticking to his forehead and standing up in damp spikes at the crown. The broken glasses sit crooked high on his nose, one lens webbed with a crack that throws a faint split line over his right eye; the pad arm has bitten a red mark into the bridge of his nose. Blood smears dry in thin brown traces from his left nostril down past the corner of his mouth and along the jaw, with a scabbed nick above one brow. The dark-gray suit jacket hangs unbuttoned and open, its mud-caked hem swinging with the step and one shoulder darker where the rain has soaked through; under it, the white shirt clings damp and translucent at the chest, blotched with mud spatter low on the ribs and a darkening blood stain at the collar edge. The black tie is pulled loose and curled, the knot sitting low and off-center under the open collar, the tail flicking out across the shirt with the movement. His shoes are black, scuffed, wet-polished and splashed at the toes, soles flattening the sheet of water in the street; the trailing foot lifts a thin curtain of spray that a passing reflection shivers. Mud at his jacket cuff where the hand swings half-curled. The street is a dreary autumn lane in heavy rain, wet asphalt running in a long perspective line, gutters overflowing with brown leaves, gray buildings blurring into mist behind him and wet tree branches leaning overhead. Overcast daylight is the only light: a flat cool gray wash from the whole sky, no cast shadows except the tight dark contact under his feet, highlights sitting on the wet jacket shoulder, the cracked lens and the standing water; everything above the street recedes into cold damp haze. Palette of wet gray, brown and dead-leaf ochre with the muted white of the shirt and one hot dried red at his mouth. The camera holds a medium-cowboy framing cutting him at mid-thigh, low enough to make him loom against the empty street behind. Quiet, rain-soaked exhaustion.

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