Pygmalion (closed for jewelskye)

Everyone's gone home. 'Home'. It sounds like sanctuary. Patrick doesn't want to go 'home'. It's a place where ghosts live. Where a man and a woman once lived happily, and then after many years he told her some truths about himself, and she started staying out late with 'friends' after that, and, and...

The distant sound of a door opening and closing. The cafeteria is eerily silent at this time of night. The others invited him to go with them when their work on the casting of the play was done. 'I'll just write up some notes, thanks.'

Actually he likes it here, in the half-lit, anonymous, echoey space. He feels safe here.

Maeve Landon. He realises he's been writing her name down over and over like a schoolboy. I just don't see her as Eliza. How sure Debra, who's cast his shows for a decade, seemed of her judgment. How unexpectedly vehement he was in Maeve's defense. He felt the ripple of surprise among the production team – Patrick Oakmont doesn't do vehement.

Ah, if they only knew what he dreams of in the dark of the night, the dreams he confessed to his wife and look what that got him, a decree absolute, the dreams that draw him to his computer screen night after night, 'vehement' isn't even halfway to describing what he...

Don't go there. You're a foolish middle-aged man with just another mid-life this-is-who-I-really-am crisis. Oh, to be young again: the young seem so damned guiltless these days. Like -

Like Maeve Landon. He must've mistaken the look in her eyes. God, those piercing eyes. No, they didn't say, Please, Sir. No they didn't. Not even for a moment. And of course, Debra's half-right, Maeve isn't the obvious one for the part, dodgy English accent, nervous laugh, some odour of the bookworm lingers about her even though they all agree she's a surprisingly natural performer - but isn't that the point of the play? To mould a latently talented young woman like her? If only he could play Higgins himself he would show them, how to teach such a woman, with such a strange mixture of defiance and humility, he'll show them at any rate how to direct her...

Come on, Patrick. Time to go. The guard 'll be down here soon, saying he has to lock up the basement. Time for 'home'. A desultory meal, a guilty look at some Internet pictures of bound and suffering women, alarm on for an early start tomorrow to tell people who's in and who's out of the show before class.

So much to look forward to.

Just as he's clearing up his papers, he hears a door creak again, out in the corridor, nearer than before. Is there someone else working as late as him?

Maeve groaned, looking at the books still stacked on the back counter that needed to be returned to the shelf. She'd organized them already, but shelving was going to take time... And energy. Energy was something Maeve seemed to have precious little of these days. Inwardly, she tried to reason with herself that it was because she was just so overloaded with her classwork. Deep down, however, she knew for certain that that wasn't so much the case as she was overloading herself with worry over the newest play the school was doing. Pygmalion was one of her favorite plays and she desperately wanted in.

The library had been closed to the student body and anyone but other librarians and security for atleast an hour now, which meant the place was empty except for her. Grabbing up the massive key ring she had that was littered with the many, many keys the library seemed to require, she moved to the door and locked it behind her, reasoning she could sneak down to the basement cafeteria for a coffee before it was locked up for the night.

A brisk walk out of the library, across the courtyard, and to the opposite building and she was soon traversing her way through the large place and down a flight of steps into the place. Coffee... she needed coffee... and a snack bar. Something to munch on before going back to work... that way her body wouldn't reject her for not eating soon enough.

Half-jogging, she entered the cafeteria and didn't seem to notice him sitting there. Flaming locks of auburn hair fell in perfect ringlet curls to just past her shoulders, while her bright emerald colored eyes reflected the dim lights like green fire. Her hand lifted to rub at the back of her neck as she moved, skin pale and flawless. She could have passed for a beauty queen if she'd just been taller... thinner...

Not that Maeve was at all fat, oh no. She was a tiny 5'2", with a body made of delicate, graceful lines and full curves that could make a grown man weep. Indeed, dressed the right way, her body could be ideal for pleasure. But she wasn't dressed the right way.

Her eyes were half hidden behind a pair of glasses she wore to read and had forgotten to take off, and she was wearing a slightly over-sized sweater, along with a mid-calf length skirt and flat ballerina flats. The outfit was nice looking, but not exactly flattering for one built like her... Instead of showing off her stunning hourglass figure, it seemed to make her bulkier than she truly was.

For a moment it seems he's conjured her up by thinking about her. Maeve Landon. Across the cafeteria, she seems to ignore his raised hand and pushes a dollar carefully into the coffee machine. Goodness, how she swathes herself in odd clothes, clothes that seem designed for someone of entirely different proportions. The sweet thing needs completely redesigning. What is it Higgins says when Eliza first comes to his flat? Take all her clothes off and burn them. Ring up Whiteley or somebody for new ones. Wrap her up in brown paper till they come. Shall he say it? No he mustn't. Brown paper and string. Tight tight string.

It's late. He must be tired. Say nothing. Pretend to be busy with what he's finishing.

She's coming over after all. He keeps his eyes on his papers, unseeing. If he so much as glances at her he'll see her naked or in brown paper and tight tight string and that would never do.

She's not herself. She's plucked up her courage. She's propped her glasses back on the top of her head. She's open-faced, charming, a flower-girl. 'Cheer up, Captain,' she says in a passable Cockney accent. He smiles, looking up at her. It's another line from Pygmalion. 'And buy a – a coffee off a poor girl.'

Flower, it says in the original. 'No flowers, then?'

He should have kept up the badinage, said the next line from the play. Something in her green eyes changes. She is another person altogether when she performs. Now she's already retreated. 'I'm sorry,' she's saying in her own voice, 'I didn't mean to interrupt...'

'You're not. Have a seat. Have...' He's suddenly seen how to rescue the moment. More Pygmalion, especially as he does indeed have in his pocket...'Have some chocolates, Eliza,' he says in his best posh-English Henry Higgins voice.

She doesn't hesitate. She's Eliza, raising her eyebrows: 'How do I know what might be in them? I've heard of girls being drugged by the like of you.'

He laughs, fighting off the dream inside him: ah, the old story, the man drugging the woman so she will perform his every command. Be natural. Be nice. 'Brilliant! You've got the part!'

She sits down, but awkwardly, just on the edge of the neighbouring table, shy again, herself again. 'But when will you really be making the decision, Mr Oakmont?'

Where's the harm in telling her now rather than the morning? Quietly, 'I mean it, Maeve,' he says. 'You've got the part.'

'You mean it?' Tears are gathering in her eyes. 'You mean it!' And then quite suddenly – quite inappropriately – quite amazingly – her arms are around him and her lips almost kissing his before kissing instead his right cheek and he feels her upper body against his and she's shaking with sobs and all he knows to do is to sit and, sit and wait – Goodness she will see how many times he wrote her name on his papers but there is nothing for it now -

Maeve was struggling to breathe around the tears falling from her eyes and the knot in her throat. Finally, after a long few moments of half-babbling into his ear about how awesome it was that he had chosen her, she pulled back and was swiping at the tears running down her cheeks. "Sorry," she managed to stammer, trying desperately to compose herself. Why did this play mean so much to her? She'd never cried over getting a part or not getting a part...

Her eyes dropped to look at her hands. They were trembling, her entire body shaking, but her hands were the worst. "Look at me... I'm shaking..." she managed to murmur, and her eyes darted around the cafeteria quickly. "Well... I... thank you... thank you so much for the opportunity." The tears were gathering again and she found herself sniffling, trying desperately to hold back the tears again.

"I wont let you down..." she managed to whisper softly. Her hands braced against the edges of the table before she pushed herself off to stand up straight. "I'll leave you to your work... I just came down for coffee and a snack.... Gotta get back to the library..."

She moved away from where he was sitting, heading for the coffee and snack machines again.

'Hey!'

I could scoop you up and carry you home and ruin my working reputation forever and be myself for the first time in my fucking life or -

Or he could just be his usual genial jokey self and say:

'Hey, Eliza!' Yes, that gets a look from her, poised at the machine. But he doesn't feel like Henry Higgins any more. 'You already got your coffee then left it over here.'

He's bringing the cup over to her when there's a strange rumbling in the air and they both look up. He thinks of planes breaking the sound barrier but Maeve seems to know what it might be straight away, her eyes are panic-stricken. 'It's too far!' she's saying, 'It's too far!'

'What's too far?' he's asking but the rumbling in a matter of seconds is becoming immense, on automatic pilot he's offering her her cup of coffee but she's looking wildly around:

'Quick! Under the table!'

At least that's what he thinks she's saying for a moment but then he realizes it's 'Quake!' - and hell, shouldn't they be in the open not closed in? He has no idea and she's right, it's too far to get back up to ground level, he's still holding the damn coffee so he hurls it across the room and knowing no better, as there's a terrible crashing sound and he sees a crack suddenly appear across the wall behind the counter and machines, he gets down under the table. Maeve is already there. The shaking and noise is immense. Her voice, not weakly but filled with emotion, says:

'Please hold me.'

And he holds her against him, as something crashes down on their table and the lights go out and her breath is hot on his neck as they cling to each other in the darkness...

The lights had gone out and Maeve was whimpering, clinging to him with her face buried against his neck and shoulder. Idly, somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that he smelled... REALLY good... Her hand clutched at the back of his shirt, though she managed to not scratch him in the process of holding on to him. "Oh Gods... please, please..." she was whimpering against him, her entire body trembling.

The earth quake felt as if it was of massive proportions, and she could hear the walls splitting and cracking... things falling, breaking... The sound of plaster from the ceiling above them hitting the table over their heads made her grateful that she'd dove under the table.

Pulling her head back, she looked up at him and searched his eyes, wanting to memorize he face of the last person she may ever see before she died. Her hands lifted to touch his face, still whimpering as soft little cries escaped her throat at the louder noises.

She was going to die... of that, she was very certain. She was going to be trapped in this place, and his was the last face she'd ever see. "I don't want to die..." she said softly, just loud enough for him to hear over the rumble of the quake. "Please don't let me go..."

Moments can last like eternities, they say, when great events occur.

But for me it's strangely literal, in real time, when the earthquake brings the building down around us, and I believe I'm going to die in the arms of a pretty young woman whom I desire, whose eyes have just looked deeply into mine, and I am resigned to the desire, and the dying.

I close my eyes. 'Please don't let me go,' she's saying.

There's a silence. Then something falls with a crash somewhere. I open my eyes, and I'm not dead. The woman is still breathing. Everything is going to be different. Her scent is not of perfume, but of something lemony she has washed with, and of herself – something indefinable, a little bitter even.

Everything is going to be different. I have the odd feeling that we are ourselves now. Just briefly it strikes me we might indeed be dead, passed across into some other landscape and mindscape where we're free of our bodies and our old petty concerns.

Half right. Why can't we be trapped here? In our bodies? There's something heavy across my legs that in turn pin down her legs. Why can't we be trapped but free?

'Are you hurt?'

She opens her eyes. Shakes her head. I could try and shift my body off hers.

I don't move. The earth shudders. 'Imagine,' I say. Beneath me her clothing is all dishevelled. My left hand has no difficulty in moving across her belly. Touching the hairs of her sex. 'Don't speak,' I say. I don't care. I don't care what happens. I don't care if she screams. My thumb and forefinger are at her clitoris and my finger is in her. We have travelled to a new world together: she's wet there. 'Imagine. Pygmalion carved a woman out of ivory. With his artist's hands,' as my hand moves in her and her eyes are wide, staring into mine. 'And then one day, with those same hands, he brings her to life.' And she moves beneath me, as my fingers move in and on her. For my right hand frees itself from under me, and reaches up to coil her aubrun hair in its grasp.

'And he says, Galatea, I will teach you things, things you never dreamt you would wish to know. And when you do well you will be well rewarded. And when you do badly you will be punished.'

How she moves, when I say punished. And the world that hasn't ended, the new world creaks and groans around us, our bodies trapped and clasped together, and she moves against me as I whisper to her of punishment, of how her clothing might be stripped from her and torn into strips and coiled around leather and made into a whip used for punishment...