Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Tearscourseunbiddenandunwelcomedownmycheeks,andIwipethemawayhurriedlywithmyfingers,scramblinginmybagformysunglasses.Aswepauseatsometrafficlight,Taylorholdsoutalinenhandkerchiefforme.Hesaysnothinganddoesn’tlookinmydirection,andItakeitwithgratitude.

           “Thankyou,”Imutter,andthissmalldiscreetactofkindnessismyundoing.Isitbackintheluxuriousleatherseatandweep.

           THEAPARTMENTISACHINGLYemptyandunfamiliar.Ihavenotlivedherelongenoughforittofeellikehome.Iheadstraighttomyroom,andthere,hanginglimplyattheendofmybed,isaverysad,deflatedhelicopterballoon.CharlieTango,lookingandfeelingexactlylikeme.Igrabitangrilyoffmybedrail,snappingthetie,andhugittome.Oh—whathaveIdone?

           Ifallontomybed,shoesandall,andhowl.Thepainisindescribable…physical,mental…metaphysical…itiseverywhere,seepingintothemarrowofmybones.Grief.Thisisgrief—andI’vebroughtitonmyself.Deepdown,anasty,unbiddenthoughtcomesfrommyinnergoddess,herlipscontortedinasnarl…thephysicalpainfromthebiteofabeltisnothing,nothingcomparedtothisdevastation.Icurlup,desperatelyclutchingtheflatfoilballoonandTaylor’shandkerchief,andsurrendermyselftomygrief.