"L. Lee Lowe - Mortal Ghost" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lowe L Lee)

'Well, well,' Kevin said. 'A real honest-to-goodness skiver.'

The others laughed. Sarah lifted her chin. Her colour had heightened, and she opened her mouth to speak.
Narrowing his eyes, Jesse gave her an almost imperceptible shake of his head. He could take care of himself
just fine.

'Do you do anything at all?' asked Mick.

'No.'

'Not even fuck?' Tondi asked, licking a bit of foam from her lips.

Jesse ground his cigarette out underfoot, bent and pocketed the butt, then picked up the skateboard. He strode
towards the half-pipe and stepped onto the flat base. In the centre he stood there gazing up at the high sloping
concrete walls. He squinted a little, shielding his eyes with a hand. The sun was just visible above the dense
foliage of an oak tree. As he watched, the greens brightened to a dazzling emerald intensity. His heart was
thudding, all his nerve endings buzzing. His mouth was dry. Raising the board above his head, he felt a spark
leap from the sun and race along the board, race through his hands, up his arms, into his shoulders, and he's
gripping the deck tightly with his fingers. His body vibrates like a tuning fork to the high-pitched note the
board emits. He closes his eyes, and the smell of pine resin fills his nostrils. He drops the board at his feet.

Back and forth Jesse pumps the ramps, back and forth and back again, building up speed through the
U-shaped pipe till he nears the coping, where he ollies without rotating just as his front wheels kiss the lip. He
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rides back down, soon dropping into a crouch but straightening as he traverses the flat. Upon entering the
sloped part of the ramp -- the transition -- he flexes his knees once more, then uncompresses them almost
immediately. The momentum lofts him upwards on an immense wing of speed. Why has he never skated
before? Nothing -- not even swimming -- has felt like this. The board, the pipe, the sky -- all are his; his, the
whole universe, and it sings to him. Again, effortlessly, he executes a perfect ollie. On the way down he takes
a deep breath and tightens his diaphragm, sharpens his focus, then soars in a fluid line up the wall, lifting his
arms, and rises high in an aerial off the vert, very high, then higher still, and catches -- no, embraces -- the
unbounded air. He spins to meet the transition. The rush of exhilaration stays with him at re-entry into
realtime.

A moment longer on the board, the smell of pine gradually fading. Then Jesse came off the pipe.

'You're right,' he said to Mick, tossing the board at his feet. 'It's easy.'

'It's an analemma,' Jesse said.

'A what?' Sarah asked.

'An analemma,' he repeated. 'The figure-8 path that the sun makes in the sky throughout the year. Have you
got a globe at home?'

'There's one in Finn's office.'

'Have a look at it. Very often it's marked. Here Ursula has incised the figure-8 on the inner surface of the
sundial.'