"Resnick, Mike - Myron Blumberg, Dragon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

"See?" she says, and then repeats it: "See? Now we'll have to
get you a whole new wardrobe! Why are you doing this to me,
Myron?"
"To _you_?" I say.
"God hates me," she says. "I could have married Nate Sobel
the banker, or Harold Yingleman who's become a Wall Street big
shot, and instead I married you, and now God is punishing me, as
if watching you spill gravy onto your shirt for 43 years wasn't
punishment enough."
"You act like _you're_ the one who's turning into a dragon,"
I complain.
"Oh, shut up and stop feeling sorry for yourself," she says.
She holds out the roast. "It's a bit rare. Blow on it and make
yourself useful." She pauses. "And if you breathe on me, I'll give
you such a slap."
That's my Sylvia. One little cockroach can send her screaming
from the house. She sees a spider, she calls five different
exterminators. God forbid a mouse should come into the garage
looking for a snack.
But show her a dragon, and suddenly she's Joan of Arc and
Wonder Woman and Golda Meier, all rolled into one steel-eyed
_yenta_ with blue hair and a double chin.

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"Where are you going?" she says.
"Out," I say.
"Out where?" she says.
"Just _out_," I say. "I have been cooped up in this house for
almost two months, and I have to get some fresh air."
"So you think you're just going to walk down the street like
any normal person?" she says. "That maybe you'll trade jokes with
Bernie Goldberg and flirt with Mrs. Noodleman like you always do?"
"Why not?" I say.
"Well, I won't hear of it," she says. "I'm not going to have
the whole neighborhood talking about how Sylvia Blumberg married a
_dragon_, for God's sakes!"
I figure it is time to make a stand, so I say, "I am going
out, and that's that!"
"Don't you speak to me in that tone of voice, Myron!" she
says, and I stop just before she reaches for the rolling pin. She
pauses for a moment, then looks up. "If you absolutely _must_ go
for a walk," she says, "I will put a leash on you and tell
everyone you are my new dog."
"I don't look very much like a dog," I say.
"You look even less like Myron Blumberg," she answers. "Just
don't talk to anyone while we're out. I couldn't bear the
humiliation."
So we go out, and when Mrs. Noodleman passes by Sylvia tells
me to hold my breath and not exhale any fire, and then we come to