The grey-haired librarian (closed to patrick1 and allyssa)

[patrick1]

The grey-haired librarian keeps watching her. Why on earth does she keep coming here? To this little branch of the City Library? Why isn't she up at the college?

Allyssa. Her name is Allyssa. Well, that's her user name on the computer. He had to help her reboot one day, and he saw her surprise at how fluent he was in understanding the computer glitch and solving it, and while he was busy not looking at the shape of her body he glimpsed the name she was sending a mail under. Allyssa.

Why does she sit here, poring over novels, essays, histories? Why doesn't she take the books out? Doesn't she have a home to go to?

She always sits in that same chair: between B and C in Novels, between Bronte and Crane, between the window where sunlight in the late afternoon falls across her face, and the tables where old men read newspapers.

Allyssa. Allyssa.

He makes himself go back to his own reading. I must not let this young woman invade my dreams. I must not let -

They are so rare, that's all: the bookish ones who are also pretty.

And of them, the ones that attend Donaldson's little branch library: even rarer.

It's late. Soon he must make the announcement that the library is about to close. He's hungry for dinner, for freedom, for the liberty to step out into the night and back into his dreams, his other dreams, to put on his private face. But he doesn't want to close. He wants to stay here forever, watching her surreptitiously, secretly planning -

Silly old fool. She's never even given him a second glance. Just that old librarian guy who's always reading about some artist. Turner, right? Gives me the creeps...

'Ladies and gentlemen, the library will shortly be closing...'

He glances in her direction. She is closing her book. The old couple across from her are already leaving. He may be alone with her for a few moments. He wipes his hands on his white handkerchief, and busies himself with putting things away and locking drawers. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her get up. He tells his heart not to bounce out of his chest. Be still my beating -

 

[Allyssa]

Allyssa

She hears the librarian announce closing time and finishes her paragraph before closing the book and standing up lightly, and brushes her dark hair away from her face, letting her green eyes shine forth after being buried in books for hours. She walks to exactly where her book goes, squatting slightly, in a ladylike fashion to put it away, then smoothes her skirt as she stands and gathers her things from around her chair, a cup of cold coffee, a light jacket and her backpack, and begins to head toward the exit, inadvertantly leaving her purse hanging from the back of the chair.

 

[patrick1]

The grey-haired librarian (Liam Donaldson)

She has left her purse hanging from the back of the chair. Is there such a thing in life as an accident? How elegantly she walks. He would have her walk a little more - more proudly, if he were - if he were - training her? - no, advising her, say. But she has a fine look. Her green eyes might look up into a tall man's and -

Stop looking at her so conspicuously, will you?

He opens the fines box and begins counting the money even though he's already cashed up once and knows darn well there's 17 dollars 53 cents in there.

3...4...5...6...she's still leaving, a glimpse of calf, that gesture with her hair again...7...8...'Good night!' 'Good night!'...17...17.53!

She's gone out. Lock the door. Lock the door. How did it get to be so hot all of a sudden?

He turns off all the lights except for the one over the issues desk. He strides across towards the PRIVATE EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY door, whisking her purse over his shoulder as he passes in a deft movement.

Slow down, man, slow down.

Once he's on the other side of the door he pauses for breath; then descends the stairs slowly. There's no rush. If she comes back now she'll bang on the door for a while. What does it matter?

Two floors down, he unlocks the door marked STUDIO. He knows what he's looking for. It only takes a moment to find a padded blindfold and a pair of soft leather cuffs. Deep breaths. He pushes both items down into the purse as he locks up and ascends the stairs. The purse bulges with its new contents. He pauses again at the door to the library. Why am I doing this?

Because she's a bookish young woman. Because it will be a challenge to her: to continue the narrative.

Because I want her in my studio.

He pushes open the door. Disappointment: she's not at the door. Oh well. There are things to do. Give her five minutes, while you're locking everything up, then have a coffee at Starbuck's next door. If she's still not returned, take the purse home. Graziana's on early shift tomorrow, we don't want her fiddling with Allyssa's purse.

Allyssa. Yes.

He busies himself, the purse stuffed into the pocket of his checked jacket, as if he weren't chanting the name to himself over and over and over again. Allyssa. Allyssa. Allyssa.

 

[Allyssa]

Allyssa Patterson

She gets to the bus stop before realizing she's left her purse. She mildly curses her absent mind and starts walking back to the library, thinking about the romance novel she had been reading. She always imagined herself in them, the perfect way things fell into place, how gentle they were, someone like that would be the one to take her virginity....if he would just ride up on his damned white horse and whisk her away already.

Distractedly she knocks on the library door after finding it locked, and peers inside. Yes there he is, she bangs a little harder, hoping he will notice. What was on his nametag....Larry...Lee... Liam...thats it Liam...

As he gets close to the door she speaks loudly
"Excuse me..um Liam...I think I left my purse"

 

[patrick1]

Liam Donaldson

Out of agitation, a great calmness descends upon him. The die is about to be cast. He waves to the young woman hammering at the door. It's entirely possible that Alyyssa has mouthed his name. Yes, yes. Something will begin now, or it won't. The book-cellar is ready for her, if that's how Fate and her decisions intertwine. He picks up his Barnes and Noble plastic bag with all his Turner materials, and pretends to find her purse somewhere beneath his table. At the door he flicks off the last light in the library. His keys jangle. Her green eyes through the glass pierce his calm for a moment; he hesitates before opening the door.

'Excuse me, um...Liam...I think I left my...'

'Just a moment, please.' Cordial, relaxed, smiling, authoritative. He locks the library door behind him. He turns to her. How extraordinarily tactile she looks, in the textures of the streetlight. From his plastic bag he produces the purse. 'Is this what you're looking for, Allyssa?' He doesn't over-emphasize her name, but he makes sure she notices that he remembers. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I've been promising myself a cappuccino for the last hour...'

He doesn't look back. The doorway into Starbucks is less than fifty yards away. It's a long fifty yards. Has she looked into the purse yet? Felt its surprising bulk? Will she run home, bewildered? Does she even have a home to go to? Will she dare to approach him in the coffee shop? Will she instead wait until tomorrow? Or vow never to enter to his library again?

A taxi's loud horn makes him jump slightly as he goes into Starbucks. 'Cappuccino grande, please. An extra shot. And I need something made out of chocolate...'

 

[Allyssa]

Allyssa

She thanks him as he walks away, then starts digging through her purse for her bus pass. She stops for a moment, seeing the cuffs and blindfold and pulls them out. Where did they come from? Had someone else left them and he just assumed they were hers? And if he did, did he think she was some kind of freak? The questions race through her mind as she turns them in her hands. She walks to the Starbuck's wrapped in thought and scans the nearly empty room for him, there he is, by the window. She approaches blushing slightly.

"Umm, excuse me Liam, but these arent mine....I..I dont know where they came from" She blushes more deeply as she speaks to him, realizing how horrible this must look to the other people here.

 

[patrick1]

Liam Donaldson

'Sit. Please. Allyssa. I bought you a cappuccino. I thought you might be along.'

'But I...'

'Sit, do. Put one cuff, and the blindfold, back in your purse, and hand me the other cuff, and sit, and sip your cappuccino. Allyssa?'

He sits back in the armchair. She thrusts one cuff, and the blindfold, back in her purse. She places the other cuff on the table between them. She doesn't sit, or sip. Blushing, her right foot tapping, she darts glances at him. Is she angry? Or...?

He sips at his cappuccino. 'In my private moments I study the artist JMW Turner. I'm originally English, you know, and he was our greatest-ever artist. Look, why don't you just try this on?'

He reaches across. He takes her left wrist. The cuff is made of leather, with a metal D-ring set into it. He curls it around her wrist, and buckles it there. She doesn't speak. She doesn't move her hand away. When he's finished, she touches the cuff with her right hand, feeling it there upon her.

'For the last twenty years of his life Turner had two identities. One was the painter at the height of his powers. The other was Admiral Booth. None of his artist-friends knew of this man; and none of the friends of the Admiral - including the woman he lived with, Sophia Booth - knew he was an artist. Some people are like this: they need two identities. I'm like that, Allyssa. Are you? Please, please sit down.' He leans forward, lowering his voice: 'Allyssa.'

 

[Allyssa]

Allyssa

She sits, a little perplexed. "I'm not sure what you mean...we all have different faces..." As she sips her cappuccino she avoids direct eye contact...wondering what this is all about, some lecture? to teach her about his passion...Turner?

"look at the Count De Sade...he was a respected noble, but he is accredited with sadomasochistic behavior...even though he was purely a masochist," she blushes slightly and looks down at her coffee as she sips it slowly.

 

[patrick1]

Liam Donaldson

'I mean,' he says, 'I have the quiet gentle face of the grey-haired librarian,' and he sips his coffee before going on, a little smudge of foamy milk on his upper lip, 'and in my private hours I have altogether another face. I am of the school of Monsieur de Sade.'

'Ah,' she says, 'you mean...?'

He holds up his hand, to explain further before she can speak. He leans forward, confidentially. 'But you confuse the roles. Monsieur de Sade was the original sadist. He liked to inflict suffering, to be in charge. A man called Sacher-Masoch was the original masochist, who liked to imagine submission, to be the one who suffers. As I said: I am of the sadistic persuasion. And you, you are...you dream of...?'

He licks the foam at last from his upper lip. He smiles, a melancholy smile. He fingers the cup in front of him. His grey-green eyes look directly into hers.

 

[Allyssa]

Allyssa

She blushes slightly, thinking of his words, and lowers her eyes to the table, "I, I guess I just dream of..umm a strong man, one who will take control..." her eyes stay lowered as not to meet his gaze, she fidgets with the bracer on her wrist.

 

[patrick1]

Liam Donaldson

'Very well.' He reaches across. With two fingers under her chin, he lifts her head so that she has to look into his grey-green eyes. Her gaze flicks down. 'No,' he says, 'look me in the eyes. You have a choice now, Allyssa.' Each of his hands now takes hold of her corresponding hand. 'I might have drugged your coffee.' Her mouth opens, she glances towards her cup before her eyes return to his. 'But I didn't. I want you to know what you're doing.'

'So your choice is simple. Either, you can get up, thank me for the coffee, smile and walk away.'

'Or you can pretend to begin to feel ill. I will help you up. I will explain to the people here that I am taking you home. But instead I shall take you to another place, where you will learn what it is to surrender, to suffer, and yet to feel intense pleasure. And if you have regrets in the future, you will be able to complain about me...recall that I drugged your coffee...they know me in here, they'll remember me half-carrying a young woman out...'

He releases her hands. He smiles, his eyes still on hers. 'The choice is yours, Allyssa.' How the saying of her name strikes a different note, a vulnerable sound, against the confidence of the rest of his words. She takes a deep breath.