"James Patrick Kelly - The Propagation Of Light In A Vacuum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kelly James Patrick)

(You've uploaded some beautiful vids. Your stills were hanging in
galleries.)
They were on late at night on back channels. All right, I'm better than
some, but not as good as others. A journeyman. Yes, that sums up my
condition nicely.
My condition. Should I describe a typical day? But then the notion of day
is another fiction. The laws of science do not distinguish between past
and future. Here the arrow of time spins at random, as in a child's game.
I'm never sure when I fall asleep whether I'm going to wake up tomorrow or
yesterday. Fortunately, the days are very similar. For purposes of sanity,
I try to keep them that way. Artists make patterns; we impose order even
where there is none. Maybe that's why I'm still here and the others are
gone.
Today, then. She snuggles next to me as I wake up. Her warm breasts nudge
my back. Her breath tickles my neck. I roll over and we kiss. Her hair is
the color of newlyнfired terra cotta. When she opens her eyes, they're
green. She has wide shoulders and I can see unexpected muscle beneath her
pale skin. She can appear to be any woman I can imagine. Today she is
large. Magnificent. There's a kind of music to her voice. When she talks,
I hear bells. She's not perfect, though: the skin under her jaw is loose,
there's a mole on her temple. Clever touches. Another time she may be
petite. She could have big hips. Long fingers. I think the reason she
keeps changing is that, like so many women, she has a poor body image.
She's far too critical of her appearance. But no matter how she looks she
can't help but become herself.
We make love. That shouldn't surprise you. Sex mostly happens between the
ears, not between the thighs. Sometimes I lose myself and skip ahead in
time to find I'm caressing a different body. But today she remains the
same; it's what we both want. I take pleasure from the way her lips part,
the bloom on her cheeks. At the end a moan catches for a moment in her
throat, and then she draws breath again.
(And you?)
I can't help but love her. That's the biggest problem with our marriage. I
love her even though she wants to separate from me -- don't deny it! Go
her own way.
I hold her until the blood stops pounding; she plays with the hair on my
chest. Finally I kiss her and get up. I'm hungry. There's french toast and
orange juice. As always. Just once I'd like to serve her breakfast in bed
but she doesn't eat. The high price of being imaginary. She watches,
though.
Afterwards we visit the fx lounge. She chooses Trunk Bay on St. John: bone
white Caribbean beach, palms tilting toward water the color of the sky.
This is part of our imaginary past. Our honeymoon, I suppose. She keeps
the temperature set at 29░ Celsius. Invisible fans waft a breeze laden
with her own homemade brew of coconut oil, female pheromones and brine.
She's convinced that the way to a man's heart is through his nose. The
floor looks just like sand except it doesn't sift between the toes, more's
the pity. We spread blankets and soak up UV in the nude. Sometimes I wish
she'd program the surround to show other people on the beach, but we're
alone. Always alone.