Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Robinson?Iwanttoaskhim,butIcan’t—Ican’tprythatinvasively.Ishakemyheadattherealization.Hereallyisanisland.

           “Willyouthinkaboutourarrangementwhileyou’reaway?”heasks.

           “Yes.”

           “Willyoumissme?”

           Igazeathim,surprisedbyhisquestion.

           “Yes,”Ianswerhonestly.

           Howcouldhemeansomuchtomeinsuchashorttime?He’sgotrightundermyskin…literally.Hesmilesandhiseyeslightup.

           “I’llmissyou,too.Morethanyouknow,”hebreathes.

           Myheartwarmsathiswords.Hereallyistryinghard.Hegentlystrokesmycheek,bendsdown,andkissesmesoftly.

           Itislateafternoon,andIsitnervousandfidgetinginthelobbywaitingforMr.J.HydeofSeattleIndependentPublishing.Thisismysecondinterviewtoday,andtheoneI’mmostanxiousabout.Myfirstinterviewwentwell,butitwasforalargerconglomeratewithofficesbasedthroughouttheUnitedStates,andIwouldbeoneofmanyeditorialassistantsthere.Icanimaginebeingswallowedupandspatoutprettyquicklyinsuchacorporatemachine.SIPiswhereIwanttobe.It’ssmallandunconventional,championinglocalauthors,andhasaninterestingandquirkyrosterofclients.

           Mysurroundingsaresparse,butIthinkit’sadesignstatementratherthanfrugality.Iamseatedononeoftwodarkgreenchesterfieldcouchesmadeofleather—notunlikethecouchthatChristianhasinhisplayroom.IstroketheleatherappreciativelyandwonderidlywhatChristiandoesonthatcouch.MymindwandersasIthinkofthepossibilities…no—Imustnotgotherenow.