Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           “I’vecomealivesinceImetyou.”Histhumbtracesthecontoursofmylowerlip.

           “Me,too,”Iwhisper.“I’vefalleninlovewithyou,Christian.”

           Hiseyeswidenagain,butthistimewithpure,undilutedfear.

           “No,”hebreathesasifI’veknockedthewindoutofhim.

           Ohno.

           “Youcan’tloveme,Ana.No…that’swrong.”He’shorrified.

           “Wrong?Why’sitwrong?”

           “Well,lookatyou.Ican’tmakeyouhappy.”Hisvoiceisanguished.

           “Butyoudomakemehappy.”Ifrown.

           “Notatthemoment,notdoingwhatIwanttodo.”

           Holyfuck.Thisreallyisit.Thisiswhatitboilsdownto—incompatibility—andallthosepoorsubscometomind.

           “We’llnevergetpastthat,willwe?”Iwhisper,myscalppricklinginfear.

           Heshakeshisheadbleakly.Iclosemyeyes.Icannotbeartolookathim.

           “Well…I’dbettergo,then,”Imurmur,wincingasIsitup.

           “No,don’tgo.”Hesoundspanicked.

           “There’snopointinmestaying.”Suddenly,Ifeeltired,reallydog-tired,andIwanttogonow.Iclimboutofbed,andChristianfollows.

           “I’mgoingtogetdressed.I’dlikesomeprivacy,”Isay,myvoiceflatandemptyasIleavehimstandinginthebedroom.

           Headingdownstairs,Iglanceatthegreatroom,thinkinghowonlyhoursbeforeIhadrestedmyheadonhisshoulderasheplayedthepiano.Somuchhashappenedsincethen.Ihavehadmyeyesopenedandglimpsedtheextentofhisdepravity,andInowknowhe’snotcapableoflove—ofgivingorreceivinglove.Myworstfearshavebeenrealized.Andstrangely,it’sliberating.