"Robert Reed - Show Me Yours" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

Show Me Yours by Robert Reed
Our latest offering from the prolific Mr. Reed is one of his darkest, a vision of the future with a
sharp edge to it. So perhaps it's wise to take a bit of the edge off with Mr. Reed's latest
biographical note: he says, "I am doing a great deal of art work lately ... I am being called upon
to draw clown faces and cats and dogs for a four-year-old whose own artistic talents are
beginning to outstrip her father's. Which isn't saying much at all, the truth be known."
****
She wears a black felt robe long enough to cover her bare knees and pale pink socks pulled over her
ankles; her calves are white and freshly shaved and her shins are even whiter and nicked in two places by
razor blades. A red belt is cinched tight, making her waist appear narrow and her hips broad. She isn't a
tall woman. By most measures, she is slender, though the body has a roundness that marks five stubborn
pounds--pounds sure to grow over time. She isn't lovely in the traditional ways, but youth and a good
complexion help. Her fine black hair is long enough to kiss her shoulders; her eyes appear dark and
exceptionally large. On stocking feet, she stands in the middle of a long hallway, her head tilted forward
while her mouth opens and closes and again opens. The door to her left--the door she came out of--is
slightly ajar. She pulls it shut now, applying pressure until the old latch catches with a sudden sharp click.
Then she stares at the opposite door, drifting closer to it, listening. The loudest sound in the world is her
soft, slow breathing. But then some little noise catches her attention, and on tiptoes, she glides down to
the end of the hallway, into the only room in the apartment where a light still burns.

Metal moves, and the second door pops open. At that moment, the young woman is sitting on a hard
chair, her back to the kitchen table. She watches a young man step out into the hallway. He wears jeans
and nothing else, and judging by his manner, he wants something. He examines the door she just closed,
then drifts a few steps to his left, finding nothing but the darkened living room. That most definitely is not
what he needs. So he finally turns in her direction and notices her sitting alone in the kitchen, sitting with
her legs crossed, illuminated from behind by the weak bulb above the sink.

"The john?" he whispers.

She nods and tilts her head.

The bathroom is beside the kitchen. He starts to fumble for the switch, closing the door all but the last
little bit before clicking the light on.

The girl doesn't move, except to scratch the back of an ear and then drop the same finger down the front
of her neck, tugging at the warmth of the old black felt. That slight pressure pulls open the robe enough to
expose the tops of her breasts. While she waits, a seemingly endless stream of urine echoes inside the
toilet bowl. Then comes the hard flush and the light goes off, and the man steps back into the hallway. He
already wears a big smile, as if he spent his time in the bathroom rehearsing this moment. "So you're the
roommate," he says.

She says, "Hi."

He steps into the kitchen, stops. "Did we wake you?"

"No."

"Good," he says.

She leans against the hard back of the chair, her chest lifting. "No, you didn't wake me." Her voice is