"James Patrick Kelly - The Propogation of Light in a Vaccuum" - 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.
(Other women kept staring at you. You were so handsome and everyone knew you'd
be famous someday. I didn't like the way you looked back. I wanted you to see
me. Only me.)
I never stay in the fx lounge very long. I want to relax but I can't. I hear
things, even over the ocean soundtrack. The hull creaks under the stress of
whatever is outside. If I rest my head on the floor, I can feel the vibration of
the ship in my molars. My imaginary wife tries to make conversation, divert me