451 по фаренгейту
It was a pleasure to burn
Shetalkedtohimforwhatseemedalongwhileandshetalkedaboutthisandshetalkedaboutthatanditwasonlywords, likethewordshehadheardonceinanurseryatafriend’shouse,atwo-year-oldchildbuildingwordpatterns,talkingjargon,makingprettysoundsintheair. ButMontagsaidnothingandafteralongwhilewhenheonlymadethesmallsounds,hefelthermoveintheroomandcometohisbedandstandoverhimandputherhanddowntofeelhischeek.Heknewthatwhenshepulledherhandawayfromhisfaceitwaswet.
LateinthenighthelookedoveratMildred.Shewasawake. Therewasatinydanceofmelodyintheair,herSeashellwastampedinherearagainandshewaslisteningtofarpeopleinfarplaces, hereyeswideandstaringatthefathomsofblacknessaboveherintheceiling.
Wasn’tthereanoldjokeaboutthewifewhotalkedsomuchonthetelephonethatherdesperatehusbandranouttotheneareststoreandtelephonedhertoaskwhatwasfordinner? Well,then,whydidn’thebuyhimselfanaudio-Seashellbroadcastingstationandtalktohiswifelateatnight,murmur,whisper,shout,scream,yell? Butwhatwouldhewhisper,whatwouldheyell?Whatcouldhesay?
Andsuddenlyshewassostrangehecouldn’tbelieveheknewheratall. Hewasinsomeoneelse’shouse,likethoseotherjokespeopletoldofthegentleman,drunk,cominghomelateatnight,unlockingthewrongdoor, enteringawrongroom,andbeddingwithastrangerandgettingupearlyandgoingtoworkandneitherofthemthewiser.
"Millie...?"hewhispered.
