"Charles De Lint - Jack, The Giant-Killer" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Lint Charles)

she’d barely been out of diapers during the sixties?
She wasn’t sure what had started it, but one moment
she was just standing there in front of the mirror, and the
next she had a pair of scissors in her hand and the long
blonde tresses were falling to the floor, one after another,
while she stood there saying, “I’m not empty inside,” over
and over trying to find some meaning in what she was
doing. And when she was finished, she was more numb
than when Will had walked out the door. There was a
stranger staring at her out of the mirror.
She remembered fumbling with her make-up, smudging
it as she put it on, smearing it some more as she knuckled
her eyes. Finally she bolted from the apartment herself.
The October air was cooling as it got dark. The streets
of Ottawa were slick from the rain that had been washing
them for the better part of the afternoon. She walked
aimlessly, stunned at what she had done, at how light her
head felt, at the touch of the wind on her scalp.
She had gone into a bar and had a drink. Then had
another. Then lost count. And now she was here, in some
grimy bathroom, the sound of the bar’s sound system
booming through the ceiling from upstairs, some
strange-looking punk-rocker staring back at her from the
mirror, and she was too lost to do anything.
“Get out of here,” she told her reflection. “Go home.”
The door opened behind her and she started guiltily as
a pair of young women entered the washroom. They were
sleek, like Vogue models. Styled hair, high heels. They
regarded her curiously, and Jacky fled their amused
scrutiny, the washroom, the bar, and found herself on the
streets, stumbling, because she was far from sober; cold,
because she’d forgotten to bring a jacket; and empty… so
empty inside.
She took Bank Street south from downtown, leaving
behind the unhappy mix of old-fashioned stone buildings
and new glass-and-steel office complexes that looked
more like men’s cologne containers when she walked
under the Queens-way overpass and into the Glebe. Here
stores still fronted Bank Street, but the blocks running east
and west on either side were all residential. When she
crossed Lansdowne Bridge, she turned east by the Public
Library, following Echo Drive down to Riverdale, crossed
Riverdale and walked down Avenue Road until she
eventually reached Windsor Park.
Her route took her in the opposite direction from her
apartment on Ossington, but she liked the peaceful mood
of the park at night. The Rideau River moved sluggishly to
her left. The grass was still wet underfoot, soaking her
sneakers. The brisk walk from downtown Ottawa had
warmed her up so that her teeth no longer chattered. The