"Nancy Kress - Stalking Beans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kress Nancy)

sobbing, muffled by the thin pillow that is the best, thanks
to my stupidity, we can now afford.
I get out of bed and stumble, torchless, into the woods.
There is no moon, no stars. The trees loom around me like
unseen giants, breathing in the blackness. It doesn't matter.
My feet don't fail me. I know exactly where I'm going.


She is taller than I am by perhaps a foot, and outweighs
me by thirty pounds. Her shoes are held together with
gummy string, not because she doesn't have betterтАФthe
closet is filled with gold slippers, fine calfskin boots,
red-heeled shoes with silver bowsтАФbut because this pair is
comfortable, and damn how they look. There is a food
stain on her robe, which is knotted loosely around her
waist. Her thick blond hair is a snarl. She yawns in my
face.
"Damn, Jack, I didn't expect you tonight."
"Is he here?"
She makes a mocking face and laughs. "No. And now
that you're here, you may as well come in as not. What did
you do, tumble down the beanstalk? You look like a dirty
urchin." She gazes at me, amused. I always amuse her. Her
amusement wakes her a little more, and then her gaze
sharpens. She slides one hand inside her robe. "Since he's
not here ..." She reaches for me.
It's always like this. She is greedy in bed, frank, and
direct. I am an instrument of her pleasure, as she is of
mine, and beyond that she asks nothing. Her huge breasts
move beneath my hands, and she moans in that open
pleasure that never loses its edge of mockery. I ease into
her and, to prolong the moment, say, "What would you do
if I never climbed the beanstalk again?"
She says promptly, "Hire another wretched dwarf to
stalk another drunken bull." She laughs. "Do you think
you're irreplaceable, Jack?"
"No," I say, smiling, and thrust into her hard enough to
please us both. She laughs again, her attention completely
on her own sensations. Afterwards, she'll fall asleep, not
knowing or caring when I leave. I'll wrestle open the
enormous bolted door, bang it shut, clump across the
terrace to the clouds. It won't matter how much noise I
make; she never wakes.
The morning air this high up is cool and delicious. The
bean leaves rustle against my face. A bird wheels by, its
wings outstretched in a lazy glide, its black eyes bright with
successful hunting, free of the pull of the earth.


Annie is crying in the bedroom of our cottage. I'm not