Это рассказ данторна. на его оф. сайте есть такая штука, где можно почти каждое действие выбирать самому. Я, из любопытства, как всегда, решила потом посмотреть и другие варианты так там их миллион! Это мой, я от него в восторге совершенном! Он меня все время заставляет улыбаться.
И я поняла, почему чувака зовут Алекс - это как Саша у нас, для обоих полов. Это только в конце стало ясно, когда эта штука спросила наши полы. Это так круто все!
The sun is bright. Complicated silhouettes drift across the grass. You’re sat next to your partner, Alex, who is lying out, reading a book about bad practice in food manufacture called: Not On The Label.
You are sitting cross-legged on a tartan blanket. There are olives, artisan bread and red-pepper hummus in a Waitrose bag. You went to Waitrose because it seemed like a place that understood happiness.
You are in the shade. In the distance, a family are playing rounders. There is a tall lady walking a pointer. The sun is still on its way up and you have noticed the patch of shadow around you shrinking – the distinct blades of grass – the hyper-reality of late June.
You burn easily.
You fear cancer.
Taking the lid off the olives, you wonder whether to have a black one or a green one.
The black olive is a bit shrivelled and unappealing but, given your open-minded and forward-looking attitude, you pop it into your mouth. First tastes: it is salty but not oppressively so.
You feel enthused.
You bite enthusedly.
A sharp jolt of pain in your teeth.
“Oh Christ!”
You put both hands over your mouth, as though you are terrified.
Alex turns to look at you and says: “The black ones have got stones in.”
You stare at the rug.
“You okay?” Alex asks.
You are teetering emotionally.
You spit the remains of the olive and the stone in to your cupped hand. A length of sputum stretches from your bottom lip. Alex is watching. “I think I might have chipped a tooth, ” you say. You were raised in North Wales – your parents are Welsh – so you pronounce tooth like tuth. Alex always finds this funny. “Oh dear, ” Alex says, rubbing your thigh, looking at you with an expression that is genuinely.
“Don’t worry, I’m okay, ” you say. “I took a risk. I can live with that.”
“You’re a leader, ” Alex says. “You’re a trailblazer. A maverick. This is who you are.”
“I’m living my life, ” you say.
“Every day, ” Alex says.
“Who can stop me?”
“No one can.”
Alex admires you for a moment before returning to Not On The Label.
You feel impressed by the toughness of your own good mood.
I’m feeling happy you say to yourself; you squint in to the distance where a pink frisbee is hanging against the sky: an alien landing, a meteor, a military weapon.
Your patch of shade is shrinking. Sunlight is now on Alex’s calves. You think of a tumour the size of a haggis.
Time moves slowly when you dwell on your own happiness. You try and pinpoint the emotion – gaze directly at it – like an eclipse seen through a pinhole.
You see that sunlight has reached the back of Alex's knees; it is inches from your feet. You imagine Alex's percentage chance of skin cancer slowly ticking upwards, making the sound of a Geiger counter.
" Yuck", Alex says, turning a page.
“What’s that?”
“Hm.”
“What are you reading?”
“The horrors of mass-produced bread.”
“I bought our bread from an artisan.”
“Big woop.”
“Our bread has the face of the man who made it on the wrapper. His name is Tim Grange.”
“The producers blast the bread with hot air and hydrogenated fat – this artificially inflates the bread – the fat helps the loaf keeps it shape.”
“Not Tim Grange, ” I say.
“And they use triple the normal amount of yeast, to get the bread to rise quicker.”
You examine the face of Tim Grange. He is smiling broadly, with uneven rural teeth, betraying none of the struggle you expect from a man living on the bread line. You make this joke internally. Tim Grange’s face is prunish but regal.
You see that sunlight has reached the back of Alex’s knees; it is inches from your feet. You try not to think about Cancer. Alex says you always spoil nice summer days by talking melanoma.
“Chuh, ” Alex says, turning a page, starting a chapter entitled: Eggs is eggs.
“What’s so bad about eggs?”
“I haven’t read it yet.”
“Eggs are great.”
“I haven’t read it yet, ” Alex says.
“Where would be without eggs?”
You lie down on the blanket and kiss Alex’s shoulder.
“Imagine a world without eggs, ” you say.
You snog for a while, tasting red-pepper hummus.
Alex lets the book fall closed.
You continue to kiss. Alex’s eyes are closed. You see, on the path, a crocodile of school children, paired off, holding hands, lead by their teacher. You start to feel a little frisky.
Alex’s tongue on your teeth. The leaves rattling above you.
You are half in sunlight but this doesn’t matter.
You close your eyes – the sun on your eyelids. Red blotches melt and shift.
Your flat is across the road from the park and you would like to have sex.
You hear a child screaming as he or she runs past you. It is a scream that could either be pleasure or terror.
Alex starts kissing your neck.
Your breathing goes jerky.
If this was a secluded beach, you would fuck like hyenas, right here on the tartan blanket.
Your legs intertwine in the sunshine. You rub against each other.
On the path, a cyclist whizzes past. There is the sound of his bike chain slipping between gears.
Alex may be giving you a love bite.
You definitely want to have sex now.
Your lips are beginning to feel swollen. Alex takes a breather, lying prone, gazing up at the leaves above you.
You kiss Alex on the belly and, for a reason that you cannot work out, you decide to make a funny, farting sound like you might with a baby.
Alex laughs and pushes you away.
The End.