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- Рэй Брэдбери
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Here
she
was
on
a
bridge
looking
into
the
clear
waters
of
the
Seine
,
and
here
he
was
,
suddenly
,
a
moment
later
,
beside
her
,
looking
down
at
the
tides
of
summer
flowing
past
.
Here
she
was
with
an
aperitif
in
her
talcum
-
white
fingers
,
and
here
he
was
,
with
amazing
quickness
,
bending
toward
her
to
tap
her
wineglass
with
his
.
His
face
appeared
in
mirrored
halls
at
Versailles
,
over
steaming
smorgasbords
in
Stockholm
,
and
they
counted
the
barber
poles
in
the
Venice
canals
.
The
things
she
had
done
alone
,
they
were
now
doing
together
.
I
the
middle
of
August
they
sat
staring
at
one
another
one
late
afternoon
.
"
Do
you
realize
,
"
he
said
,
"
I
’
ve
seen
you
nearly
every
day
for
two
and
a
half
weeks
?
"
"
Impossible
!
"
"
I
’
ve
enjoyed
it
immensely
.
"
"
Yes
,
but
there
are
so
many
young
girls
.
.
.
"
"
You
’
re
everything
they
are
not
—
kind
,
intelligent
,
witty
.
"
"
Nonsense
.
Kindness
and
intelligence
are
the
preoccupations
of
age
.
Being
cruel
and
thoughtless
is
far
more
fascinating
when
you
’
re
twenty
.
"
She
paused
and
drew
a
breath
.
"
Now
,
I
’
m
going
to
embarrass
you
.
Do
you
recall
that
first
afternoon
we
met
in
the
soda
fountain
,
you
said
that
you
had
had
some
degree
of
—
shall
we
say
affection
for
me
at
one
time
?
You
’
ve
purposely
put
me
off
on
this
by
never
mentioning
it
again
.
Now
I
’
m
forced
to
ask
you
to
explain
the
whole
uncomfortable
thing
.
"
He
didn
’
t
seem
to
know
what
to
say
.
"
That
’
s
embarrassing
,
"
he
protested
.
"
Spit
it
out
!
"
