"Carrie Richardson - Sous La Mer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Richardson Carrie)

football, and the beach ahead of me was littered with their membranous bodies for
as far as I could see. TomorrowтАЩs sun would heat the air trapped inside until the
bags burst like balloons, leaving only a smear of bright blue on the sand.

I made my way south down the shore, avoiding the still-dangerous stinging
tentacles of the jellyfish. Between waves I would step out onto the wet sand, looking
for interesting shells or odd pieces of flotsam, but as each wave curled in, I danced
backward to the dryline, careful not to get my shoes wet. Once I stepped on a
jellyfish by mistake and the gasbag popped with a rush of sour, briny air. I fancied
that I saw a movement in the tentacles then, but it must have been my imagination, or
the wind. Jellyfish are incapable of feeling pain, or so scientists say.

I stopped on a sandy spit that curved out into the waters like the prow of a
ship. The breeze had an iodiney nose that I have always found intoxicating and I
quested it for news. Occasionally a sharper gust of wind peppered my cheeks and
the backs of my hands with stinging grains of sand. The round moon hammered a
molten path across the wavetops, inviting me, and the song of the surf pulled at me
like an undertow. For a long time I stared out at the junction of sky and water. Not a
single lightтАФ not a ship nor a navigation buoy nor a drilling platform тАФshowed in
the darkness. I knew that I could walk out into those waves, and keep walking тАФ
forever.

My love for Suzanne, and the loyalty and guilt that have kept me by her side
ever since her accident, stopped me. I turned my steps back to the house. Back to
Suzanne.

I heard them before I saw them: sighs that were not the wind, moans that were
not waves upon the shore. I had been gone for several hours; plenty of time for one
to call the other, for an invitation to be issued and accepted, for passion to progress
to foreplay, and beyond.

Allan had wheeled her chair down the ramp from the terrace into the sands,
and spread her blanket next to it. I lingered in the shadows at the comer of the house
and watched them. Suzanne was on top, her skin as white as wavefoam in the
moonlight, her thighs gripping AllanтАЩs hips, the rounded stumps of her legs,
amputated just above the knee, digging into the blanket for purchase.

My groin tightened as I watched Allan caress my sisterтАЩs small, conical
breasts, with their tiny aureoles and bullet-shaped, pink nipples; the pale hollows
inside her hipbones; the froth of white hair between her legs; the delicate, pink
membranes beneath.

He whispered words to her that the wind tore away, but she was too far gone
to hear him anyway. Her nails left strange script on his chest, and when she came,
she arched her back and screamed like one of her beloved gulls.

Without pulling out of her, he turned her beneath him and began to move. Her
hands closed on his buttocks and pulled him hard against her; she came again just
before he emptied himself into her. For a few moments she stroked him as he lay
heavily atop her. When she reached into the pouch hanging from her wheelchair, I