"Connie Willis - Even The Queen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Willis Connie)

standing next to Mother's chair. "I had these mood swings," she said. "One minute I'd feel cheerful and
the next like Lizzie Borden."
"Who's Lizzie Borden?" Twidge asked.
"She killed her parents," Bysshe said. "With an ax."
Karen and the docent glared at both of them. "Aren't you supposed to be working on your math,
Twidge?"
"I've always wondered if Lizzie Borden had PMS," Viola said, "and that was why--"
"No," Mother said. "It was having to live before tampons and ibuprofen. An obvious case of justifiable
homicide."
"I hardly think this sort of levity is helpful," Karen said, glowering at everyone.
"Are you our waitress?" I asked the straw-hatted woman hastily.
"Yes," she said, producing a slate from her overalls pocket.
"Do you serve wine?" I asked.
"Yes. Dandelion, cowslip, and primrose."
"We'll take them all."
"A bottle of each?"
"For now. Unless you have them in kegs."
"Our specials today are watermelon salad and choufleur gratine," she said, smiling at everyone. Karen
and the docent did not smile back. "You hand-pick your own cauliflower from the patch up front. The
floratarian special is saut├йed lily buds with marigold butter."
There was a temporary truce while everyone ordered. "I'll have the sweet peas," the docent said, "and a
glass of rose water."
Bysshe leaned over to Viola. "I'm sorry I sounded so horrified when your grandmother asked if I was
your livein," he said.
"That's okay," Viola said. "Grandma Karen can be pretty scary."
"I just didn't want you to think I didn't like you. I do. Like you, I mean."

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"Don't they have soyburgers?" Twidge asked.
As soon as the waitress left, the docent began passing out the pink folders she'd brought with her.
"These will explain the working philosophy of the Cyclists," she said, handing me one, "along with
practical information on the menstrual cycle." She handed Twidge one.
"It looks just like those books we used to get in junior high," Mother said, looking at hers. "'A Special
Gift,' they were called, and they had all these pictures of girls with pink ribbons in their hair, playing
tennis and smiling. Blatant misrepresentation."
She was right. There was even the same drawing of the fallopian tubes I remembered from my middle
school movie, a drawing that had always reminded me of Alien in the early stages.
"Oh, yuck," Twidge said. "This is disgusting."
"Do your math," Karen said.
Bysshe looked sick. "Did women really do this stuff?"
The wine arrived, and I poured everyone a large glass. The docent pursed her lips disapprovingly and
shook her head. "The Cyclists do not use the artificial stimulants or hormones that the male patriarchy
has forced on women to render them docile and subservient."
"How long do you menstruate?" Twidge asked.
"Forever," Mother said.
"Four to six days," the docent said. "It's there in the booklet."
"No, I mean, your whole life or what?"
"A woman has her menarche at twelve years old on the average and ceases menstruating at age fifty-