Писатель Илья Розенфельд

— Did you order a miracle? She seemed to want to confirm she had the right number, or perhaps that I hadn't changed my mind. Although only 5 minutes had passed since I visited the "Come to Us - for Miracles" website. — You react quickly, — I replied. — In this day and age, that's a miracle in itself. The girl relaxed and even smiled. — And how did you find out about us? We only launched this service on our website yesterday. — A friend recommended you. He was at your presentation, got a discount card for advising three friends to you. I'm one of them. I received your text message and followed the link to the site. Do you need my personal data? — I already have it; I'll just check if we have everything correct. Tom Green , 35, from New Haven. Not married. — That's all correct, — I confirmed. — Have you familiarized yourself with the pricing? — my conversationalist asked in a friendly manner. — Yes, thank you. The price is fine with me. And w...

Alex considered his ability a curse wrapped in alluring packaging. One kiss—just one fleeting touch of the lips—and a woman's entire life would crash down on him in an avalanche of information, leaving no room for secrets, mystery, or the sweet uncertainty called romance. He was a walking lie detector, an archivist of other people's souls, and it made him the loneliest man in the world. His gift, or affliction, wasn't mere intuition. It was a squall of sensory data. The first kiss with a blonde named Charlotte on their third date brought the taste of burnt coffee from the office machine, the smell of chlorine from the pool she visited three times a week, and the quiet, almost inaudible jingle of the wedding ring she had taken off and hidden in her purse before meeting him. He learned she was 34, not 28 as she claimed; that she wasn't an "art director" but a senior manager at an advertising agency, and her main hobby wasn't contemporary art but watchin...