Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           “Itmeansalottomethatyou’llbethere,Ana,”hewhispersinmyear.“Anothermargarita?”

           “JoséLuisRodriguez—areyoutryingtogetmedrunk?BecauseIthinkit’sworking.”Igiggle.“IthinkI’dbetterhaveabeer.I’llgogetusapitcher.”

           “Moredrink,Ana!”Katebellows.

           Katehastheconstitutionofanox.She’sgotherarmdrapedoverLevi,oneofourfellowEnglishstudentsandherusualphotographeronthestudentnewspaper.He’sgivenuptakingphotosofthedrunkennessthatsurroundshim.HeonlyhaseyesforKate.She’salltinycamisole,tightjeans,andhighheels,hairpiledhighwithtendrilshangingdownsoftlyaroundherface,herusualstunningself.Me,I’mmoreofaConverseandT-shirtkindofgirl,butI’mwearingmymostflatteringjeans.ImoveoutofJosé’sholdandgetupfromourtable.

           Whoa.Headspin.

           Ihavetograbthebackofthechair.Tequila-basedcocktailsarenotagoodidea.

           ImakemywaytothebaranddecidethatIshouldvisitthebathroomwhileIamonmyfeet.Goodthinking,Ana.Istaggeroffthroughthecrowd.Ofcourse,there’saline,butatleastit’squietandcoolinthecorridor.Ireachformycellphonetorelievetheboredomofwaiting.Hmm…WhodidIlastcall?WasitJosé?Beforethat,anumberIdon’trecognize.Ohyes.Grey,Ithinkthisishisnumber.Igiggle.Ihavenoideawhatthetimeis;maybeI’llwakehim.Perhapshecantellmewhyhesentmethosebooksandthecrypticmessage.Ifhewantsmetostayaway,heshouldleavemealone.Isuppressadrunkengrinandhitthe“call”button.