"Lisa Tuttle - Tirnanog" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuttle Lisa)

been whittled away by marriage, parenthood, defection to other parts of the
country, and even death. Three remained, women I had been friends with for
nearly thirty years, whom I saw regularly and thought of as "like me." Janet was
an artist, Lecia was a writer and Hillary was a theatrical agent. We had similar
emotional histories and similar lifestyles, in our small apartments with our
cats, in love with men who saw us in the time they could carve out from their
real lives with their wives and children elsewhere. Over the years we had kept
each other going, cheered and commiserated with each other, staying loyal to a
certain vision of life while the men, the cats, the jobs and other details
changed.

Now that I thought about it, though, I realized that I alone of the sisterhood
still had a lover. The other three were all "between men" --and had been for at
least two years. What's more, they seemed content. In the old days, celibacy
would have been a matter for complaint and commiseration. I couldn't think of
the last time we'd had a good moan about the perfidy of men, or a plotting
session devoted to fixing up someone with Mr. Right. Bits of subliminal
knowledge, memories of certain looks, words unspoken, hints, fell together in my
mind. I scented a conspiracy. They knew something that I didn't. And I needed
help.

I went to see Lecia. Our friendship was based on straightforwardness,
intellectual discussions, a liking for the same books, an interest in both
philosophy and gossip. I felt we were a lot alike, and I knew I could be
straight with her. When we were settled with our cups of decaffeinated latte, I
asked if there was a man in her life.

She chuckled and gave me a funny, assessing look over her cup. "No one except
James."

James was her cat, purring in her lap. Lecia lived near Washington Square, and
the cat had turned up in her life a few years earlier just after she'd embarked
on her project of reading or rereading the entire works of Henry James.

"How long has it been since you split up with...?"

"Three years."

"And there hasn't been anybody since?"

She shook her head.

"And it's all right? You don't miss...all that?"

Her mouth quirked. "Do I look frustrated?"

I gave her a careful inspection and shook my head. "You look great. Really
relaxed. Is that the yoga? Hormones?" Lecia, who was a few years older than me,
had elected to go for HRT when the menopause hit.
She chuckled. "I think it's contentment."