Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Heturns,andoutofthecornerofmyeyes,Iwatchhimsaunterbackovertothechestofdrawers,returningwiththeiPodandwhatlookslikeaneyemask,similartotheoneIusedonmyflighttoAtlanta.Thethoughtmakesmewanttosmile,butIcan’tquitemakemylipscooperate.Iamtooconsumedwithanticipation.Ijustknowmyfaceiscompletelyimmobile,myeyeshuge,asIgazeathim.

           Sittingdownontheedgeofthebed,heshowsmetheiPod.Ithasastrangeantennadeviceaswellasheadphones.Howodd.IfrownasItrytofigurethisout.

           “Thistransmitswhat’splayingontheiPodtothesystemintheroom,”Christiananswersmyunspokenqueryashetapsthesmallantenna.“Icanhearwhatyou’rehearing,andIhavearemotecontrolunitforit.”Hesmirkshisprivate-jokesmileandholdsupasmall,flatdevicethatlookslikeaveryhipcalculator.Heleansacrossme,insertingtheearbudsgentlyintomyears,andputstheiPoddownsomewhereonthebedabovemyhead.

           “Liftyourhead,”hecommands,andIdosoimmediately.

           Slowly,heslidesthemaskon,pullingtheelasticoverthebackofmyhead,andI’mblind.Theelasticonthemaskholdstheearbudsinplace.Icanstillhearhim,thoughthesoundismuffledasherisesfromthebed.I’mdeafenedbymyownbreathing—it’sshallowanderratic,reflectingmyexcitement.Christiantakesmyleftarm,stretchesitgentlytotheleft-handcorner,andattachestheleathercuffaroundmywrist.Hislongfingersstrokethelengthofmyarmoncehe’sfinished.Oh!Histouchelicitsadelicious,ticklyshiver.