Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Thememoryofthewayhispajamashungfromhishipscomesunbiddentomymind.Theimageistotallydistracting.Isquirmuncomfortably.Heglancesupatme,andIblush.

           “I’dgiveanythingtoknowwhatyou’rethinkingrightatthismoment,”hemurmurs.Iblushfurther.

           Hesmilesawickedsmileatme.

           “Icanguess,”heteasessoftly.

           “I’mgladyoucan’treadmymind.”

           “Yourmind,no,Anastasia,butyourbody—thatI’vegottentoknowquitewellsinceyesterday.”Hisvoiceissuggestive.Howdoesheswitchsoquicklyfromonemoodtothenext?He’ssomercurial…It’shardtokeepup.

           Hemotionsforthewaitressandasksforthecheck.Oncehe’spaid,hestandsandholdsouthishand.

           “Come.”Takingmyhandinhis,heleadsmebacktothecar.Thiscontact,fleshtoflesh,it’swhatissounexpectedfromhim,normal,intimate.Ican’treconcilethisordinary,tendergesturewithwhathewantstodointhatroom…theRedRoomofPain.

           WearequietonthedrivefromOlympiatoVancouver,bothlostinourownthoughts.Whenheparksoutsidemyapartment,it’sfiveintheevening.Thelightsareon—Kateisathome.Packing,nodoubt,unlessElliotisstillthere.Heswitchesofftheengine,andIrealizeI’mgoingtohavetoleavehim.

           “Doyouwanttocomein?”Iask.Idon’twanthimtogo.Iwanttoprolongourtimetogether.

           “No.Ihaveworktodo,”hesayssimply,gazingatme,hisexpressionunfathomable.

           Istaredownatmyhands,asIknotmyfingerstogether.SuddenlyIfeelemotional.He’sleaving.