JК
The Lunatic Cafe :: Гамильтон Лорел
Страница: 136 из 234The heater clicked on, and I jumped. The vent was above the couch. The air played along his hair, the cloth of his shirt, but it was like watching a mannequin. The hair and clothes worked but the rest was stone.
The silence stretched and filled the room. The heater died, and the quiet was so profound I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. It was like the stillness before creation. You knew something big was coming. You just didn't know quite what. I let the silence flow around me. I wouldn't be the one to break it, because I was afraid of what came next. This utter calmness was more unnerving than anger would have been. I didn't know what to do with it, so I did nothing. A course of action I seldom regret.
It was Gretchen who broke first. "Did you hear her, Jean-Claude? She is to wed another. She loves another."
He blinked once, a long, graceful sweep of lashes. "Ask her now if she loves me, Gretchen."
Gretchen stepped in front of me, blocking Jean-Claude from view. "What does it matter? She's going to marry someone else."
"Ask her." It was a command.
Gretchen whirled to face me. The bones in her face stood out under the skin, lips thin with rage. "You don't love him."
It wasn't exactly a question, so I didn't answer it. Jean-Claude's voice came lazy and full of some dark meaning that I didn't understand. "Do you love me, ma petite ?"
I stared into Gretchen's rage-filled face and said, "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said no?"
"Can you not simply say yes?"
"Yes, in some dark, twisted part of my soul, I love you. Happy?"
He smiled. "How can you marry him if you love me?"
"I love him, too, Jean-Claude."
"In the same way?"
"No," I said.
"How do you love us differently?"
The questions were getting trickier. "How am I supposed to explain something to you that I don't even understand myself?"
"Try."
"You're like great Shakespearean tragedy. If Romeo and Juliet hadn't committed suicide, they'd have hated each other in a year. Passion is a form of love, but it isn't real. It doesn't last."
"And how do you feel about Richard?" His voice was full of some strong emotion. It should have been anger, but it felt different from that. Almost as if it were an emotion I didn't have a word for.
"I don't just love Richard, I like him. I enjoy his company. I. ." I hated explaining myself. "Oh, hell, Jean-Claude, I can't put it into words. I can see spending my life with Richard, and I can't see it with you.
The silence stretched and filled the room. The heater died, and the quiet was so profound I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. It was like the stillness before creation. You knew something big was coming. You just didn't know quite what. I let the silence flow around me. I wouldn't be the one to break it, because I was afraid of what came next. This utter calmness was more unnerving than anger would have been. I didn't know what to do with it, so I did nothing. A course of action I seldom regret.
It was Gretchen who broke first. "Did you hear her, Jean-Claude? She is to wed another. She loves another."
He blinked once, a long, graceful sweep of lashes. "Ask her now if she loves me, Gretchen."
Gretchen stepped in front of me, blocking Jean-Claude from view. "What does it matter? She's going to marry someone else."
"Ask her." It was a command.
Gretchen whirled to face me. The bones in her face stood out under the skin, lips thin with rage. "You don't love him."
It wasn't exactly a question, so I didn't answer it. Jean-Claude's voice came lazy and full of some dark meaning that I didn't understand. "Do you love me, ma petite ?"
I stared into Gretchen's rage-filled face and said, "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said no?"
"Can you not simply say yes?"
"Yes, in some dark, twisted part of my soul, I love you. Happy?"
He smiled. "How can you marry him if you love me?"
"I love him, too, Jean-Claude."
"In the same way?"
"No," I said.
"How do you love us differently?"
The questions were getting trickier. "How am I supposed to explain something to you that I don't even understand myself?"
"Try."
"You're like great Shakespearean tragedy. If Romeo and Juliet hadn't committed suicide, they'd have hated each other in a year. Passion is a form of love, but it isn't real. It doesn't last."
"And how do you feel about Richard?" His voice was full of some strong emotion. It should have been anger, but it felt different from that. Almost as if it were an emotion I didn't have a word for.
"I don't just love Richard, I like him. I enjoy his company. I. ." I hated explaining myself. "Oh, hell, Jean-Claude, I can't put it into words. I can see spending my life with Richard, and I can't see it with you.