Сумерки

           Icouldfeelthewavesofinfuriateddisapprovalrollingoffofhim,andIcouldthinkofnothingtosay.

           Andthentheroadended,constrictingtoathinfoottrailwithasmallwoodenmarker.Iparkedonthenarrowshoulderandsteppedout,afraidbecausehewasangrywithmeandIdidn’thavedrivingasanexcusenottolookathim.Itwaswarmnow,warmerthanithadbeeninForkssincethedayI’darrived,almostmuggyundertheclouds.Ipulledoffmysweaterandknotteditaroundmywaist,gladthatI’dwornthelight,sleevelessshirt-especiallyifIhadfivemilesofhikingaheadofme.

           Iheardhisdoorslam,andlookedovertoseethathe’dremovedhissweater,too.Hewasfacingawayfromme,intotheunbrokenforestbesidemytruck.

           "Thisway,"hesaid,glancingoverhisshoulderatme,eyesstillannoyed.Hestartedintothedarkforest.

           "Thetrail?"PanicwasclearinmyvoiceasIhurriedaroundthetruckto

           catchuptohim.

           "Isaidtherewasatrailattheendoftheroad,notthatweweretakingit."

           "Notrail?"Iaskeddesperately.

           "Iwon’tletyougetlost."Heturnedthen,withamockingsmile,andIstifledagasp.Hiswhiteshirtwassleeveless,andheworeitunbuttoned,sothatthesmoothwhiteskinofhisthroatfloweduninterruptedoverthemarblecontoursofhischest,hisperfectmusculaturenolongermerelyhintedatbehindconcealingclothes.Hewastooperfect,Irealizedwithapiercingstabofdespair.Therewasnowaythisgodlikecreaturecouldbemeantforme.

           Hestaredatme,bewilderedbymytorturedexpression.