Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 4
Ipretendtoreadthearticle,allthetimemeetinghissteadygraygaze,searchingthephotoforsomeclueastowhyhe’snotthemanforme—hisownwordstome.Andit’ssuddenlyblindinglyobvious.He’stoogloriouslygood-looking.Wearepolesapartandfromtwoverydifferentworlds.IhaveavisionofmyselfasIcarusflyingtooclosetothesunandcrashingandburningasaresult.Hiswordsmakesense.He’snotthemanforme.Thisiswhathemeant,anditmakeshisrejectioneasiertoaccept…almost.Icanlivewiththis.Iunderstand.
“Verygood,Kate,”Imanage.“I’mgoingtostudy.”Iamnotgoingtothinkabouthimagainfornow,Ivowtomyself,andopeningmycoursenotes,Istarttoread.
IT’SONLYWHENI’Minbed,tryingtosleep,thatIallowmythoughtstodriftthroughmystrangemorning.IkeepcomingbacktotheIdon’tdothegirlfriendthingquote,andI’mangrythatIdidn’tpounceonthisinformationsooner,beforeIwasinhisarmsmentallybegginghimwitheveryfiberofmybeingtokissme.He’dsaiditthereandthen.Hedidn’twantmeasagirlfriend.Iturnontomyside.Idly,Iwonderifperhapshe’scelibate.Iclosemyeyesandbegintodrift.Maybehe’ssavinghimself.Well,notforyou.Mysleepysubconscioushasafinalswipeatmebeforeunleashingitselfonmydreams.
Andthatnight,Idreamofgrayeyesandleafypatternsinmilk,andI’mrunningthroughdarkplaceswitheeriestriplighting,andIdon’tknowifI’mrunningtowardsomethingorawayfromit…it’sjustnotclear.
Iputmypendown.Finished.Myfinalexamisover.
