"Stephen Woodworth - Her" - читать интересную книгу автора (Woodworth Stephen)

When I got off the phone, I went into the bathroom and turned on the tub’s
hot water tap full bore. As the tub filled, I stripped naked and regarded myself in the
mirror. Not a bad body. An angular chest fringed with hair, muscular arms, a little
slack in the gut from too much red meat and chocolate. And the face — normal,
maybe even handsome.

The face of an ordinary man.

I glanced at the hand mirror which I kept face down beside the sink, the way a
suicide keeps a loaded gun in the house. I ripped off the wig and snatched up the
hand mirror, angling it so as to glare at her reflection in the wall mirror. It’s the only
way we can see each other.

There were similarities between us, a sort of family resemblance. The shape of
the eyes, the curve of the nose. But this face had a finer bone structure, smoother,
smaller-pored skin, a delicacy of expression that could only be a woman’s. And
everyone who had seen it recognized it for what it was.

She saw the hate in my stare and averted her eyes. I slapped the hand mirror
down on the counter, but still felt the drip trickle down her cheek. The steam misting
the wall mirror blurred my image to a pink smear.

The water in the tub stung my foot as I stepped in. I lay back, the heat
pricking my skin with needles of pain, until everything but my face was submerged.
Like bottled messages, little, frantic bubbles streamed past my ears to burst on the
surface. I shut my eyes, and waited for them to stop.

She wouldn’t drown, though. I knew that from experience.

I finally took Elle out a week later. It went badly. I was late, the restaurant was
slow, the movie was a dog. All evening, my head throbbed as if the scalp had shrunk
over my cranium, compressing the brain within.

Afterward, I pulled up in front of the house Elle shared with her roommates,
but let the engine idle a moment to cover my embarrassed silence.

“You look like you hated that flick even more than I did,” Elle said as I
switched off the ignition. She wore a wry smirk, and her gray-blue eyes flickered
with either amusement or irritation.
 I rubbed my forehead. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Lee?” She brushed her knuckles along my forearm. “You okay?”

“Sure.”

I’d seen Dr. Vickers again, let him take X-rays and run some tests. Too risky,
he concluded. Inoperable. Perhaps with more time...

Just like all the others.