"Lisa Tuttle - Ghosts and Other Lovers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuttle Lisa)

тАЬWeтАЩve kept in touch, but we never meet.тАЭ

тАЬWell, surely you canтАЩt be friends if you never meet.тАЭ

тАЬMaybe someday. But not like that. She wouldnтАЩt thank me for that, inviting her over to meet my new
girlfriend!тАЭ

тАЬWhy not? How do you know? You didnтАЩt leave herтАФsheтАЩs the one who told you it was over. ThatтАЩs
what you told me. So maybe sheтАЩd be glad to see youтАЩre settled with somebody, she doesnтАЩt have to feel
guiltyтАФтАЭ

тАЬYou donтАЩt know her. And you donтАЩt want to know her, believe me. You wouldnтАЩt like each other; I
donтАЩt mean sheтАЩs unlikable, or that you are, only that youтАЩre very different. YouтАЩve nothing in common.тАЭ

тАЬExcept you. Why donтАЩt you want me to meet her?тАЭ

тАЬThereтАЩs no reason for you to meet her,тАЭ he said impatiently. тАЬItтАЩs all over between us. DonтАЩt you believe
me? Are you jealous? Is that the problem? You donтАЩt have any reason to be jealous. She hardly ever
crosses my mind. SheтАЩs in the past. I have no wish to see her, and I donтАЩt know why you should.тАЭ

It stung, to be told I had nothing in common with this тАЬgenuinely beautifulтАЭ woman who had beenтАФas he
had told me once and never since altered or deniedтАФthe one, great, passionate love of his life. I
wondered why he loved me, if he did, when we argued so much and had so little in common.

It was Jane who brought us together, and Jane who came between us. I knew too much about her, that
was the problem. He didnтАЩt have to talk about her or mention her name for her presence to be
summoned. The things which were connected with her in his mind also, as if by telepathy, called her to
mine. I donтАЩt think he realized quite how much he had told me about her, how many small details I still
retained. There were a few songsтАФтАЬJealous GuyтАЭ by John Lennon and тАЬTrouble AgainтАЭ by Karla
Bonhoff are the ones I still rememberтАФwhich I knew had been special to him and so now carried a
particular emotional freight for me. I couldnтАЩt sit on his couch (loose covers sewn by her own fair hands),
raise a wine glass (set of six, a present after sheтАЩd managed to break his last two), or turn on the kitchen
light (the art moderne fixture was one theyтАЩd found together on a weekend trawl through Camden Lock)
without being reminded of the woman whose place I now filled.

He still wore the large, square signet ring sheтАЩd bought him for his thirtieth birthday. I wished he would
stop wearing it, but he was unresponsive to hints. Once, when we were making love, he hurt me with it
very slightly, but even then he didnтАЩt remove it, he was only more careful, which in turn made me even
more aware of its importance.

No matter what he said or did, no matter how much he claimed to love me, there was always the
memory of Jane in the background, in my mind if not in his, keeping me on edge or off balance, bitterly
aware that she had been here before me, and that no matter how much he said he loved me, once upon a
time he had loved her more.

Almost from the beginning we quarreled a lot, petty disagreements, but they added up. I didnтАЩt like his
friends and he could tell that mine didnтАЩt much like him, so we gave up socializing with other people and
just went out to dinner, to concerts, or to movies with each other. That was all right, but when it came
time to go home we always argued about whose home. By any objective standards, his flat in a mansion
block off Oxford Street was more comfortable and more convenient than my bedsit in Chiswick with the