"Davis, Jerry - Random Acts" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davis Jerry)

feeling in my chest, as if all the organs had been relocated, and
there's a unpleasant tingling in my arms. Suppressed emotions. I
take a breath, stand up, and turn away. They obviously want to be
alone.
I walk around the chair and into my room, turning on the
light. My bed has camera equipment strewn all across it, and along
my walls are shelves with terrariums full of specimens, and on my
desk is an old IBM Selectric II typewriter and piles and piles of
notes and dust and clutter . . . and goddamn it, I don't want to
deal with the mess, not right now. I don't even want to be here
--- the room is so small it gives me claustrophobia. Turning
around, I go back into the living room just in time to catch a
glimpse of Tom carrying Pris in his arms, heading toward his
bedroom. When they get inside he lifts one leg and closes his door
with his foot. I sigh and walk down the hall to the apartment door
and quietly let myself out.
I am so fucking stupid sometimes. Why do I let things like
this happen to me? How could I be so careless as to fall
hopelessly in love with my roommate's girlfriend? I trudge down
the outer hall, down the steps, and out of the Euclid, patting the
shoulder of our bum as I go. The sun has set, and twilight is
rapidly fading to night. I make a left and take a walk through the
Berkeley campus, heading up into the hills behind, up behind the
Greek Theater, up nearly to the laboratory buildings that are at
the top. From the hill I can see all the way across the bay to San
Francisco, the city where Pris comes from . . . it sparkles like a
billion diamonds through the distant haze. The air up here is cool
and fresh. I breathe deeply and tell myself that everything is
okay. Everything is just fine.
#

The next morning, Saturday the 21st, I walk back from the Co-Op
apartments where our friend Felix lives, where I'd spent the night on
the floor with a sheet and a pillow, and just as I approach the gray
brick building where I pay rent I see Pris timidly let herself out of
the front door, carefully closing it behind her. Her hair is messy and
the collar of her white and blue blouse is half inside-out; she looks
sleepy, and there's a contented look on her face. I myself have a
hangover, which reminds me of the decision I had made last night: I am
going to force myself to fall out of love with Pris. This agony that I'm
going through is nothing more than a few chemicals in my brain, a few
synapses misfiring when they should be dormant, a few hormones mingling
with my blood when they shouldn't. Well, last night Felix and I decided
that the conscious mind can influence the subconscious, and the
subconscious can change anything in the body that is controlled by the
brain. Love can be controlled by the brain, so I will force myself to
shut it off.
I don't love her, I tell myself as I hide from her. As a matter of
fact, I hate her. I despise her.
She pushes her hair out of her left eye as she walks to the corner