"Jim Munroe - Flyboy Action Figure Comes With Gas Mask" - читать интересную книгу автора (Munroe Jim)

"That's what those patios are," Cass retorted. "Gawk Central."
"Nuh-uh," I said. I had put some thought into it. "It's a different
dynamic. If there's a
crowd of people doing anything, then it's OK. Like dancing. All together,
there's a mass
delusion that swinging your limbs around like that is all right. But if
someone's shakin' their
booty in a bank line-up --"

"Nutbar," she said, grinning with one side of her mouth.
"Exactly. Not that I don't love dancing. I *looove* dancing. You?"
There was a pause. In that pause, I thought two-and-one-half things.
*Because it'd be a
crime against humanity if you don't, lookin' the way you do* , and *Oh, I
think she thinks I'm
leading up to asking her out to go dancing* , and *Oh dear, should I? how very
stressful --*
"It's all right," she said, giving me a sideways look that I was utterly
unable to decipher.
She sauntered away in that way I so admired, getting some old guy his check.
 Admission: up until that day, my admiration of her was based mostly on
her body. She
would wear these track pants and T-shirt combinations that *tried* to contain
those heavy
breasts, *tried* to hide her wonderful bum, but failed delightfully. I had
always considered
*voluptuous* a polite euphemism, but then I met Cass.
It was more than that. I won't pretend that it was a whole lot more, but
she had a
casualness that amplified her appeal immensely. No make-up, an Aunt Jemima
handkerchief
that barely kept her wiry, kinky mop of shoulder-length hair in check. And the
clothes that
looked like she might have slept in them. The sexiest of
Sunday-morning-just-don't-give-a-
damn looks.
But of course it wasn't just a *look* . For the two years I had been
living in the area,
she had been working here full time. When she took your order, fixing you with
her dark eyes,
you knew better than to mess with someone who'd been on her feet all day. Her
breasts
drooped slightly, but her slow and silent energy rolled like a thundercloud.
"So now you come back to us, now that their patios are cold."
I thought that was a poetic turn of phrase, but I didn't know if she
intended it to be. So
I just smiled and said, "Well, now I *appreciate* the blast of hot, greasy air
when I come out of
the cold."
She laughed, but I felt bad for calling it greasy, even when it was. So