[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Pinktoenails.Three-inch heels.She was able to kiss me without straining.Just a peck.Her lips were supple.Then she took my chin as she had in therestaurant and her tongue impelled itself between my lips.I offered sometooth resistance, then let her in.Her hand dropped, cupped my butt andsqueezed.She moved back, taking my hand, twisting the doorknob.'All thosewho enter, abandon all hope.''Of what?''Boredom.'Page 250 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlShe took my hand.The house was packed, the music well past loud and intopainful.As she led me through the crowd, I tried to look the place overwithout being obvious.Just past the entry were two doors - a bathroomdesignated le pissoir by a computer-printed sign, and an unmarked one that wasprobably a closet.An unrailed staircase led downstairs.Like many hillsidehomes, bedrooms on the lower floor.A gray-haired woman in a black dress with a white Peter Pan collar waitededgily near the lav, not looking up as we passed.The jam of bodies was bathedin Stravinsky and barely illuminated.Some people danced, others stood andtalked, managing to communicate despite the din.The colored lights wereChristmas bulbs strung from thelow-beamed ceiling and they did little but blink in opposition to The Rite ofSpring.I saw shadows rather than people.No other signs or banners, nothing identifying it as a Meta bash.What did Iexpect?Zena dragged me forward.The other partygoers moved aside with varying degreesof cooperation but no one seemed to notice us.The house was smaller than Iwould have guessed, the entire second floor just one main room, a waist-highcounter sectioning off a two-step kitchen to the right.Every inch of counterwas filled with plastic soda bottles, bags of ice, beer cans, packages ofpaper plates, plastic utensils.What I could see of the walls was hung with prints in metal frames.Florals,nothing telling.It didn't seem like Zena's style, but who knew how often shereinvented herself?One thing was certain, she wasn't into decorating.The few pieces of furnitureI saw weren't much better than Andrew's, and the books that filled two wallssat in flimsy-looking shelves nearly identical to his.Spooky prescience on Daniel's part.If he ever tired of police work, a careeras a matchmaker awaited.Zena's hand burned my fingers as she continued to guide me past a long foldingtable covered with white paper.Behind it were yet more people, eating anddrinking.Then, the only feature elevating the house above low-rent crackerbox: glassdoors onto a balcony, beyond them a symphony of stars.Man-made constellations twinkling from houses half a mile across a darkenedravine and the real stuff set into a melanin sky.Drop-dead view, a real-estate agent would claim, working mightily to show theplace at night.As we neared the food, I played passive and managed arough body count.Sixty, seventy people, enough to congest the modest room.I looked for Farley Sanger.Even if he'd been there, I'd have been unlikely tospot him in the darkened crush.Sixty, seventy strangers, as average-looking as their cars.Page 251 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlMen seemed to outnumber women.The age range, thirty to mid-fifties.No one particularly ugly, no raving beauties.It might have been a casting call for Nondescript.But an active bunch.Fast-moving mouths, a mass lip-synch.Lots of gesturing,posturing, shrugs, grins, and grimaces, finger-stabs of emphasis.I spotted the thickly bearded man who'd answered the door off in a comer byhimself, sitting on a folding chair, holding a can of Pepsi and a paperbackbook, worrying a fold of his sweatshirt.He looked up, saw me, stared, returned to reading with the intensity of afinals-crammer.Nearby, two other men, one in a baggy tan suit and plaid tie,the other wearing an untucked white shirt and khakis, sat at a tiny tableplaying silent chess and smoking.As my eyes accommodated, I noticed other games going, on the edges of theroom.Another chess match - a woman and a man - moving pieces quickly andfiercely, a minute-glass filled with rapidly sifting white sand next to thewoman's left hand.A few feet away, yet more table warfare.Scrabble.Cards.Backgammon.Go.Something that resembled chess but was played on a cubelikeplastic frame by two bespectacled, mustached men wearing black who could havebeen twins - three-dimensional chess.On the near side of the kitchenpartition, two other men did something intense with polished stones and diceand a mahogany chute.How did anyone concentrate with the noise?Then again, these were smart people.We made it to the drinks.The white paper was a butcher's roll cut unevenly.Soda, beer, bottled water, off-brands of scotch, vodka, bourbon, corn chipsand pretzels, salsa and guacamole and shrimp dip still in plastic containers.Zena used a chip to excavate the avocado paste, came up with a healthy greenblob, ate, scooped again, and aimed the construction at my mouth.'Good?' she mouthed.'Excellent.'Grinning and fluffing her bangs, she blew me a kiss, reached out and took holdof my belt buckle and tilted her head at the glass doors.Her eyes were thebrightest thing in the room.She led me out to the balcony and closed the doors.'A dull road.So theneighbors don't shit themselves.'It was quieter out here, but we weren't alone.About a dozen people shared thebalcony, but no turning heads or vigilant eyes.Lots of conversation; I tried to make out words, heard 'economy', 'texture','bifurcation', 'mode of deconstruction'.Zena maneuvered me into the left-hand corner and I felt the railing press intomy back.Not much of a railing, thin iron, top and bottom pieces connected bywidely spaced diagonal pickets.A large man would have had trouble slippingthrough, but anyone else would have found it easy.Zena pushed up against me and the metal bit deeper.The air was warm, the viewPage 252 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlstunning.Maybe that made it the party's romance zone, because right next to us, anothercouple made out feverishly.The man was beefy, balding, middle-aged, wore atweed jacket too small around the shoulders, it rode up over corduroyslacks.His playmate was a few years younger, fair-haired, bespectacled, witha thin face but thick arms that jiggled in a sleeveless white dress as shemasturbated her boyfriend's lapel.He said something, her hands flew aroundhis neck, and they kissed again.Next to them three men argued heatedly.about modems, software, morons onthe Internet, how the meaning of cyber had been distorted from NorbertWiener's original conception.Zena turned my head and jammed her mouth against mine.No one noticed.The apathy was comforting.But also disappointing, because what did it sayabout my conspiracy ruminations?A murder club? What I was seeing were some folk who craved sex and chitchat,checkmate, triple-word scores, whatever you aimed for in three-dimensionalchess.Sixty, seventy people.How many killers?If any.The lovebirds next to us continued to go at it, even as the debating trioraised the volume, one man nearly shouting.Zena's tongue continued to explore my palate [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Pinktoenails.Three-inch heels.She was able to kiss me without straining.Just a peck.Her lips were supple.Then she took my chin as she had in therestaurant and her tongue impelled itself between my lips.I offered sometooth resistance, then let her in.Her hand dropped, cupped my butt andsqueezed.She moved back, taking my hand, twisting the doorknob.'All thosewho enter, abandon all hope.''Of what?''Boredom.'Page 250 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlShe took my hand.The house was packed, the music well past loud and intopainful.As she led me through the crowd, I tried to look the place overwithout being obvious.Just past the entry were two doors - a bathroomdesignated le pissoir by a computer-printed sign, and an unmarked one that wasprobably a closet.An unrailed staircase led downstairs.Like many hillsidehomes, bedrooms on the lower floor.A gray-haired woman in a black dress with a white Peter Pan collar waitededgily near the lav, not looking up as we passed.The jam of bodies was bathedin Stravinsky and barely illuminated.Some people danced, others stood andtalked, managing to communicate despite the din.The colored lights wereChristmas bulbs strung from thelow-beamed ceiling and they did little but blink in opposition to The Rite ofSpring.I saw shadows rather than people.No other signs or banners, nothing identifying it as a Meta bash.What did Iexpect?Zena dragged me forward.The other partygoers moved aside with varying degreesof cooperation but no one seemed to notice us.The house was smaller than Iwould have guessed, the entire second floor just one main room, a waist-highcounter sectioning off a two-step kitchen to the right.Every inch of counterwas filled with plastic soda bottles, bags of ice, beer cans, packages ofpaper plates, plastic utensils.What I could see of the walls was hung with prints in metal frames.Florals,nothing telling.It didn't seem like Zena's style, but who knew how often shereinvented herself?One thing was certain, she wasn't into decorating.The few pieces of furnitureI saw weren't much better than Andrew's, and the books that filled two wallssat in flimsy-looking shelves nearly identical to his.Spooky prescience on Daniel's part.If he ever tired of police work, a careeras a matchmaker awaited.Zena's hand burned my fingers as she continued to guide me past a long foldingtable covered with white paper.Behind it were yet more people, eating anddrinking.Then, the only feature elevating the house above low-rent crackerbox: glassdoors onto a balcony, beyond them a symphony of stars.Man-made constellations twinkling from houses half a mile across a darkenedravine and the real stuff set into a melanin sky.Drop-dead view, a real-estate agent would claim, working mightily to show theplace at night.As we neared the food, I played passive and managed arough body count.Sixty, seventy people, enough to congest the modest room.I looked for Farley Sanger.Even if he'd been there, I'd have been unlikely tospot him in the darkened crush.Sixty, seventy strangers, as average-looking as their cars.Page 251 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlMen seemed to outnumber women.The age range, thirty to mid-fifties.No one particularly ugly, no raving beauties.It might have been a casting call for Nondescript.But an active bunch.Fast-moving mouths, a mass lip-synch.Lots of gesturing,posturing, shrugs, grins, and grimaces, finger-stabs of emphasis.I spotted the thickly bearded man who'd answered the door off in a comer byhimself, sitting on a folding chair, holding a can of Pepsi and a paperbackbook, worrying a fold of his sweatshirt.He looked up, saw me, stared, returned to reading with the intensity of afinals-crammer.Nearby, two other men, one in a baggy tan suit and plaid tie,the other wearing an untucked white shirt and khakis, sat at a tiny tableplaying silent chess and smoking.As my eyes accommodated, I noticed other games going, on the edges of theroom.Another chess match - a woman and a man - moving pieces quickly andfiercely, a minute-glass filled with rapidly sifting white sand next to thewoman's left hand.A few feet away, yet more table warfare.Scrabble.Cards.Backgammon.Go.Something that resembled chess but was played on a cubelikeplastic frame by two bespectacled, mustached men wearing black who could havebeen twins - three-dimensional chess.On the near side of the kitchenpartition, two other men did something intense with polished stones and diceand a mahogany chute.How did anyone concentrate with the noise?Then again, these were smart people.We made it to the drinks.The white paper was a butcher's roll cut unevenly.Soda, beer, bottled water, off-brands of scotch, vodka, bourbon, corn chipsand pretzels, salsa and guacamole and shrimp dip still in plastic containers.Zena used a chip to excavate the avocado paste, came up with a healthy greenblob, ate, scooped again, and aimed the construction at my mouth.'Good?' she mouthed.'Excellent.'Grinning and fluffing her bangs, she blew me a kiss, reached out and took holdof my belt buckle and tilted her head at the glass doors.Her eyes were thebrightest thing in the room.She led me out to the balcony and closed the doors.'A dull road.So theneighbors don't shit themselves.'It was quieter out here, but we weren't alone.About a dozen people shared thebalcony, but no turning heads or vigilant eyes.Lots of conversation; I tried to make out words, heard 'economy', 'texture','bifurcation', 'mode of deconstruction'.Zena maneuvered me into the left-hand corner and I felt the railing press intomy back.Not much of a railing, thin iron, top and bottom pieces connected bywidely spaced diagonal pickets.A large man would have had trouble slippingthrough, but anyone else would have found it easy.Zena pushed up against me and the metal bit deeper.The air was warm, the viewPage 252 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlstunning.Maybe that made it the party's romance zone, because right next to us, anothercouple made out feverishly.The man was beefy, balding, middle-aged, wore atweed jacket too small around the shoulders, it rode up over corduroyslacks.His playmate was a few years younger, fair-haired, bespectacled, witha thin face but thick arms that jiggled in a sleeveless white dress as shemasturbated her boyfriend's lapel.He said something, her hands flew aroundhis neck, and they kissed again.Next to them three men argued heatedly.about modems, software, morons onthe Internet, how the meaning of cyber had been distorted from NorbertWiener's original conception.Zena turned my head and jammed her mouth against mine.No one noticed.The apathy was comforting.But also disappointing, because what did it sayabout my conspiracy ruminations?A murder club? What I was seeing were some folk who craved sex and chitchat,checkmate, triple-word scores, whatever you aimed for in three-dimensionalchess.Sixty, seventy people.How many killers?If any.The lovebirds next to us continued to go at it, even as the debating trioraised the volume, one man nearly shouting.Zena's tongue continued to explore my palate [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]