"Robert Reed - Reunion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Robert)

Reunion
by Robert Reed

Last month, Mr. Reed regaled us with Joe Carroway’s epic story in “Five
Thrillers.” This month, the new tale from Nebraska’s foremost science
fiction writer is smaller in scope, but we think you’ll like meeting the Twelve
and the Ten just as much as you enjoyed “Five Thrillers.”

****

Eleven years past her last major role, yet Martha L. still looked ready for
somebody to feed her her next line. Tiny, tiny sunglasses hovered above
that perfect nose and the elegant, upturned chin. To my tastes, her face
was the living definition of classical beauty, despite layers of makeup
working in tandem with subcutaneous microchines, carefully obscuring the
erosions of time. I’d always heard what a lucky actress she was: Martha L.’s
projects typically made money, her divorces had been spectacular and
timely, and her supporting casts were blessed with talent, but not so much
they could ever steal the show. She was shorter than she looked in movies;
as they say, high heels and a tall woman’s frame helped the illusion of
stately elegance. But when I saw her for myself, I finally appreciated just
how small the woman was. She looked like a child climbing out of the
razor-wagon—a willowy, middle-aged child still able to wear black
short-shorts and a simple white shirt that accented her breasts and narrow
waist. Despite a pair of thick-soled sandals, she leaped gracefully to the
pavement. Then she happened to glance in my direction. The two lenses of
her sunglasses were riding on magnetic curtains, hiding those lovely green
eyes. I couldn’t tell if she saw me or not, but a robust smile emerged. With
a single expression, the actress managed to convey a wealth of possible
emotions: indifference and passion, as well as an emotional chill and a
natural, yet hard-to-define brilliance. She looked poised. She looked ready
for anything. But then I noticed her tiny fingers dancing, and I realized that
the woman was nervous, even vulnerable. Which made her utterly fetching
to me.

“Easy, tiger,” my date rumbled. “You don’t want that.”

“How do you know what I want?” I countered.

“I don’t,” he agreed. “But remember our story: I’m here with the love
of my life. Which happens to be you, if I remember it right.”

Kale was a tall gentleman, pleasant of nature and handsome despite
those extra thirty pounds around his waist. We’d known each other for a
couple years. I’d met him after first becoming interested in his school and
old classmates. Subterfuge isn’t my talent; right off, I had warned him that I
was unabashedly gay and not interested, but thanks for flirting. Then flat
out, I asked, “Speaking as one of the famous graduates, what do you think
the explanation is?”