"Jack Finney - The Other Wife" - читать интересную книгу автора (Finney Jack)

moment I said coaxingly, "Come on, Sweetfeet, what'd I do wrong?"

"Oh, Al!" she wailed. "You don't listen to me; you really don't! Half the time you don't hear a word I
say!"

"Why, sure I do, honey." I was rattling the hangers, hunting for my pants. "You were talking about
knitting."

"An orange sweater, I said, Al-orange. I knew you weren't listening and asked you how an orange
sweater would go with- Close your eyes."

"What?"

"No, don't turn around! And close your eyes." I closed them, and Marion said, "Now, without any
peeking, because I'll see you, tell me what I'm wearing right now."

It was ridiculous. In the last five minutes, since I'd come home from the office, I must have glanced at
Marion maybe two or three times. I'd kissed her when I walked into the apartment, or I was pretty sure I
had. Yet standing at my closet now, eyes closed, I couldn't for the life of me say what she was wearing. I
worked at it; I could actually hear the sound of her breathing just behind me and could picture her
standing there, a small girl five feet three inches tall, weighing just over a hundred pounds, twenty-four
years old, nice complexion, pretty face, honey-blond hair, and wearing-wearing-

"Well, am I wearing a dress, slacks, medieval armor, or standing here stark naked?"

"A dress."

"What color?"

"Ah-dark green?"

"Am I wearing stockings?"

"Yes."

"Is my hair done up, shaved off or in a pony tail?"

"Done up."

"O.K., you can look now."

Of course the instant I turned around to look, I remembered. There she stood, eyes blazing, her bare
foot angrily tapping the floor, and she was wearing sky-blue wash slacks and a white cotton blouse. As
she swung away to walk out of the room and down the hall, her pony tail was bobbing furiously.

Well, brother-and you, too, sister-unless the rice is still in your hair, you know what came next: the hurt,
indignant silence. I got into slacks, short-sleeved shirt and huarachos, strolled into the living room, and
there on the davenport sat Madame Defarge grimly studying the list, disguised as a magazine, of next
day's guillotine victims. I knew whose name headed the list; and I walked straight to the kitchen, mixed
up some booze in tall glasses and found a screw driver in a kitchen drawer.