"Rusch-WithoutEnd" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rusch Kristine Kathryn)

KRISTINE KATHRYN RUSCH

WITHOUT END

THE SUN, HIGH IN THE HOT August afternoon, sent short shadows across the neatly
trimmed grass. A small clump of people huddled in a semicircle, close but not
touching. The coffin, in the center, sat on a platform covering the empty hole.

Dylan placed a rose on the black lacquer surface, and stepped back. A moment,
frozen in time and space.

A hand clutched his shoulder. Firm grip, meant as reassurance. He turned. Ross
nodded to him, mouth a thin line.

"She was a good woman," Ross whispered.

Dylan nodded. The minister was speaking, but he didn't care about the words,
even though the rest of the group strained forward.

"She would have found this silly," Dylan said, and then stopped. Ross's
expression had changed from one of sympathy to something else --confusion.:
Disapproval?. Dylan didn't know, and didn't really want to find out. Outside he
was calm. Inside he felt fragile, as if his entire body was formed of the
thinnest crystal. One wrong look, a movement, a shadow on the grass, would
shatter him into a thousand pieces.

A thousand pieces. Shards, scattered on the kitchen floor. Geneva, crouched over
them, like a cat about to pounce. Look, Dylan, she said. To us, a glass
shattered forever. But to the universe, possibilities. A thousand possibilities.

He stared at the black box. He could picture Geneva inside as she had looked the
night before: black hair cascading on the satin; skin too white; eyes closed in
imitation sleep. Geneva had never been so still.

He wondered what she would say if she stood beside him, her hand light on his
arm, the summer sun kissing her hair.

For just a moment, trapped in space and time.

Stars twinkled over the ocean. Dylan stood on the damp sand, Geneva beside him,
her hand wrapped in his and tucked in his pocket -- the only warm thing on the
chilly beach. Occasionally the wind would brash a strand of her hair across his
face. She would push at her hair angrily, but he liked the touch, the faint
shampoo smell of her.

She was staring at the waves, a frown touching the comers of her mouth. "Hear
it?" she asked.