Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           I’mgratefulthatKate’splumdressissoclingyandhangstothetopofmyknees.

           WespeedupInterstate5,bothofusquiet,nodoubtinhibitedbyTaylor’ssteadypresenceinthefront.Christian’smoodisalmosttangibleandseemstoshift,thehumordissipatingslowlyasweheadnorth.He’sbrooding,staringoutthewindow,andIknowhe’sslippingawayfromme.Whatishethinking?Ican’taskhim.WhatcanIsayinfrontofTaylor?

           “Wheredidyoulearntodance?”Iasktentatively.Heturnstogazeatme,hiseyesunreadablebeneaththeintermittentlightofthepassingstreetlamps.

           “Doyoureallywanttoknow?”herepliessoftly.

           Myheartsinks,andnowIdon’tbecauseIcanguess.

           “Yes,”Imurmurreluctantly.

           “Mrs.Robinsonwasfondofdancing.”

           Oh,myworstsuspicionsconfirmed.Shehastaughthimwell,andthethoughtdepressesme—there’snothingIcanteachhim.Ihavenospecialskills.“Shemusthavebeenagoodteacher.”

           “Shewas.”

           Myscalpprickles.Didshehavethebestofhim?Beforehebecamesoclosed?Ordidshebringhimoutofhimself?Hehassuchafun,playfulside.IsmileinvoluntarilyasIrecallbeinginhisarmsashespunmearoundhislivingroom,sounexpected,andhehasmypantiessomewhere.

           Andthenthere’stheRedRoomofPain.Irubmywristsreflexively—thinstripsofplasticwilldothattoagirl.Shetaughthimallthat,too,orruinedhim,dependingonone’spointofview.OrperhapshewouldhavefoundhiswaythereanywayinspiteofMrs.R.Irealize,inthatmoment,thatIhateher.