(no subject)

[elinorwise]

“Jake? Is that you?” This was followed by a fusillade of dry,
barking coughs.

I almost kept silent. I could have kept silent. Then I
thought of how much of his life Al had invested in this
project, and how I was now the only thing he had left to
hope for.

I turned toward the sound of those coughs and spoke in a
low voice. “Al? Talk to me. Count off.” I could have added, Or
just keep coughing.

He began to count. I went toward the sound of the
numbers, feeling with my foot. After ten steps—far beyond
the place where I had given up—the toe of my shoe simultaneously took a step forward and struck something
that stopped it cold. I took one more look around. Took one
more breath of the chemical-stenchy air. Then I closed my
eyes and started climbing steps I couldn’t see. On the fourth
one, the chilly night air was replaced with stuffy warmth and
the smells of coffee and spices. At least that was the case
with my top half. Below the waist, I could still feel the night.

I stood there for maybe three seconds, half in the present
and half in the past. Then I opened my eyes, saw Al’s
haggard, anxious, too-thin face, and stepped back into
2011.

Как же мне нравится его темп. Я знаю, у Кинга не то чтобы совсем уникальное чувство темпа - но это прям идеально, и это то, чего мне никогда не удается достичь. Мой собственный темп вечно спешит, будто я хочу как можно скорее разделаться с каждой сценой.
Оригинал записи на Дыбре