sylphtext

I wrote this several years ago, and recently changed certain aspects of it to update it, but it's still set 5 years ago.

It's not one of the best, but I like certain aspects of it very much and might borrow them for something else.

It's somewhat erotic, slightly cheesy, and there's a tiny joke inserted for my Hizzy friends. I can't take this stuff too seriously
 

Meeting Wesley

I'd taken the job on a temporary basis, but when the six months were up and it was time to head back east, I found myself reticent to leave California behind.
 

He walked me to my car after the final meeting. I told him it wasn't necessary, I mean, I can handle myself against whatever might come crawling out of the big bad dark of night, but still he insisted. When we reached the parking lot, he hesitated, as though there was still something he needed to say. After a three hour meeting where he had the floor most of the time, I'd have thought he ran out of words. Then he cleared his throat.

"I, eh, I thought perhaps we might find a place to talk, have a drink if you like, or coffee, something—?"

"Well gosh, Wesley, why don't we just go back to my apartment and I can fix you a drink there?" I knew what he wanted, I figured we could just cut to the chase. After all, the signs were there; I'd been planting them for weeks, right? And clearly, he was either finally reading them, or setting up a few of his own.

At the apartment, I took his coat as I asked, "Irish or Scotch?"

He grinned in reply, "Irish, please, neat."

"Of course. I know a purist when I see one. Here you go," I said, handing him a glass of Black Bush, making sure to brush his fingertips with my own as he took it from me. It was like static shock, if that could be deemed a pleasant sensation.

Tossing back half the glass; I had poured a double, Wesley leaned back, tilted his chin up, and with eyes half-closed, murmured, "Liquid silk. God bless the Irish."

I excused myself for a few minutes, so I could change out of my work clothes and check my voice mail. No calls from headhunters, no calls even from Dad, but there was one offering a fourth carpet cleaning if I paid for three. Whatever. Opting out of the classic but cliche negligee combination, I quickly replaced my jacket, blouse and skirt with a stretch tank top and running shorts. Like I ever run. I put my hair in a loose ponytail with a few tendrils left dangling past my ears. Men love that. They think they're being subtly playful as they lean in to twist a lock around their finger, then move in closer to whisper something clever in your ear.

When I returned, I saw that he had removed his jacket and tie, and refilled his whiskey glass. Signs fully read and understood.

He looked up, clearly startled as I entered, and spoke, "I'm sorry, I didn't know I was interrupting a midnight run."

"Well, there's no reason I can't find some other way to work up a sweat." I walked over to the couch to join him, momentarily frozen in position with glass to his lips.

He swiftly replied, "They say you reach your fitness goals much quicker with help from a personal trainer." Then he tossed back that whole drink like it was a glass of water.

Taking the glass from his hand, I retorted, "Are you making me an offer, Wesley?"

He turned, shifting his weight to face me, and pulled my arms up over my head, drawing his hands up the length of them in a trembling motion, then suddenly and swiftly brought my hands down tightly against my sides and answered, "If you're willing and able to endure what I can offer you, it's all yours."

Yesterday I was rummaging through my closet and I found the tank top on the floor, where I'd thrown it, thinking maybe some day I'll fix the straps and wear it again. Probably I won't. In any case, I'll know what sort of garment not to wear next time I see him. If I see him. He's been away for a couple of days; no one's heard a thing. Again. When he disappeared before, we all just waited and wondered and then just about the time we'd given up and expected to see his soul up for bid on ebay, he came striding through, full of information on a demon he'd uncovered, and a new magical bauble to dangle before our eyes.

That night, I was only thinking of the moment in front of me, not any other to follow. If you'd asked me then what I expected or if I'd thought of any sort of future with him, in all honesty I'd have to say nada.
 

We lit candles. People do, of course. We set them everywhere, and then we poured wine; well, I brought the bottle and glasses, but we didn't use the glasses. I remember he held the bottle up to the light and commented on how the color was refracted in the incandescent warmth. Or some such whiskey-induced nonsense.

It stained my bed sheets, right through to the mattress. I thought later of calling the cleaning company that had left a message, but there seemed no real point. The rental company can keep my deposit if they like. Now my bedroom smells like a combination of Shiraz and the night-blooming jasmine on my windowsill. Hey, it's like a free trip to the south of France, right? Yeah. Anyway...

"Did you imagine," he asked at one point, "us in bed together while you were attending all those meetings? Did you picture me naked in your rented boudoir, tearing up the sheets in heated lust over your delectable little body?"

I had to admit hadn't imagined it quite this way. "Actually, I assumed you were sort of a prude, you know, all getting down to business, then shutting off the light for sleep. Hey, watch it with that flame, mister! Anyway, I suppose I had the idea I could teach you things, all full of wisdom, if somewhat lacking in experience. I've spent much more time flirting than following through, I'll admit."

"It's the accent, I presume. You hear it and you imagine a man saying such phrases as, 'A spot of tea sounds lovely, what?' and not, for one example, 'Show me your filthy sweet-smelling quim.'"

At that point, with the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger in my mouth, which I'd been alternating sucking lightly and sort of musingly flicking the edge with my tongue, I just bit down hard. But instead of protesting, he merely whispered, in this sly, amused voice, "Not there, darling; if you really want to bring the pain, you have to sink your teeth in here."
 

I'm so stiff, even after four days; no sweating in a 100 degree room doing impossible yoga positions class instructor ever taxed me the way Wesley did that night.

There's salt all over the place. I vacuumed the floor of course, but I'm sure I'll still be finding the stuff a year from now, behind the curtains or under the bed or wherever you'd probably not think to look for it. That was a new one, for sure. But he insisted, before we'd even touched much, really, and somehow, probably due to our having been blinded by wine and whiskey, the circle ended up being apartment shaped and sized and in our clothes, the cushions, our hair: the salt, the wine, the wax, the blur of it all, well. This was not the naively planned fantasy with the dark and dashing foreigner I'd anticipated. This was, well, contraband erotic literature, the kind with the cover torn off, dog-eared pages with key passages marked to reread and fantasize over.

I won't be returning to the east yet; extended the lease for another six months, signed a new contract with the firm. I have no idea where he is or when he'll return.

We stumbled into the shower, sinking down into the tub with the hot water pouring over us, and all I remember seems like half-hazed visions now, or peering through a window with distorted glass; dizzy, swimming in the blur of his hands in my hair, my teeth pulling at that amazing lower lip, the bristle of his chin against my face and all over my body, colliding against each other with reckless appetite. The steam, the scents, the muted colors; I'm wearing them on the surface of my skin and it seems like I can just rub it all in, like if I rub hard enough, it will all come back; he'll be here against me, inside me, offering a magic that lasts without fading away.
 

It's been raining and cold for 3 days. Here in L.A. that's not so rare as to call it a supernatural phenomenon, but it is a little unusual. My hair is a wreck, I wake up to darkness instead of bright California sun, and the days are starting to bleed together pretty much. Just now, the VCR clock tells me it's early evening, and I have a nearly irresistible urge to drown myself in cocoa. I don't mean drown, I mean drench. Hot, sticky, cloyingly sweet cocoa. Let it dry on my skin and just wait for him to show up. I think I know he will.

I got this whole idea from when I first learned about "Mary Sues!" I thought, well, why not make that work for me? Actually be myself in the story, surrounded by the fictional people I love. So if that's how it sounds, hee, it's because that's what it is.

Later on I have to factor in some time travel.

Which many of them will be. The word counts will give you an indication of your personal time commitment.

I realized I'm so bad with what year we're in--it wasn't nearly six years ago I began these stories, it's nearly eight for some of them, including this one and a couple others I will share today.

I want to tell you first off that I am probably a better writer than I was eight years ago, but definitely less light-hearted. Also, I don't think this can go anywhere now, but I've kept it around sentimentally. And I had help with the London bits from an internet friend, so if they're dumb, don't blame me, blame whoever he was, whose name I've repressed because he got a bit clingy. I wrote much more at the time, but it was on paper, as I did not have my private laptop yet. And that notebook was destroyed in a basement flood. I've mentioned my personal little black cloud, right?

Meeting Remus

 Climbing the stairs that led up to the street, I realized I was expecting the [starkly] filtered light of a Manhattan morning, and, blinking in preparation against brightness, instead found myself facing the dull and drizzly streets of West London.

March 10, 1995

I started this journey with a variety of colored ball point pens, and now find myself reduced to using either red or purple. Blue and black were lost in a subway cushion or under a dining table, perhaps. I gave the green one to a very drunk young woman who promised me she'd "return it promptly." I didn't hold my breath. Red ink makes me think of loss, thanks to Mom's accounting training, so I record these thoughts in purple, which may or may not suit my present mood; time and reflection will reveal all...

With nothing particularly new on my mind, I'm going to take some time to describe what I see around me; writing physical descriptions is definitely a weak point, one more of those areas where repression takes the reins.

This shop is sort of two places in one. On the left as you enter is a dusty old bookshop; the kind with cats and chairs and a teapot, books that have been in the window for ages, and a channel of light capturing dust in its path to the old but solid wooden floor. The shopkeeper either welcomes you with a tiny quick smile, or eyes you with suspicion if you don't appear bookish enough to fully appreciate what you're about to experience.

On the right side is a modern tea shop with hot drinks, juices and sodas, and the sorts of rolls and sweet rolls that are called "buns" here. It's larger than it looks from the outside, affording private corners for relaxation or perhaps clandestine meetings, but over all there's a friendly air about the place, and all who enter are made to feel welcome.

Now see, those weren't physical descriptions at all! Just my usual "capturing of essences" mingled with a few non-sensory facts. Why? Do I just subconsciously avoid adjectives? I'll try some people, try to really *describe* them, as well as what they are about.

Here is a woman, 20ish, self-aware--okay, she has the kind of figure that people refer to as statuesque. Maybe 5' 10", solid but womanly, shoulder-length mouse-colored hair; bright, though. She has a tattoo on her shoulder that might be a dragonfly or angel or some such winged creature. She is wearing an unseasonable spaghetti strap top of turquoise, with Japanese kanji stamped all over it in a sort of gold flake, and a pair of old jeans that are cuffed-they must be men's jeans to be so long on her-and her shoes are these big black clompy-looking things that slip on without buckles or ties. Her face is heart-shaped, but angular rather than soft, with one of these strong noses that we Americans tend to refer to as "horsey." Horsey, but really charming.

Ah, so much effort for such little return. It would have been simpler and more to the point to say something about how she looks like she can paint with delicate strokes, but also help you move your furniture down stairs without breaking a sweat. That kind of description is much easier for me to write.

The young woman has bought some tropical-looking juice and joined an older woman at a table near the window. So enough about her.

I'm drinking chai: a spicy black tea blended with milk and honey. It's pretty strong, and it feels like food as it slips down my throat, unlike some teas that just sort of glorify the water they're steeped in.

As I sip my drink and write this futile exercise, I can also see a man sitting alone almost right in the center of the shop. His table is filled with old books; some stacked, some lying open, and he refers to them while furtively writing in a notebook not much different from my own. Only I don't think he's using purple ink. He appears to be about ten years older than me, not quite old enough for middle age reading glasses, so his must be for nearsightedness, and occasionally he takes them off, sort of blinking hard and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

I bet he gets headaches, poor thing.

I wonder if he's here regularly?

I like this place; I think I'll stop in again soon, maybe spend some time next door poking through the stacks.

Physical Description #2 (written later in evening from memory)

Tallish, 40ish, proud cheekbones, determined chin, small but expressive mouth, typically English nose (to Yankee mind) but not horsey. Traditional wire-rimmed glasses, slightly wavy medium brown hair with flecks of both gold and grey, light-colored eyes, nondescript navy blue sweater (jumper? ew) dark brown pants--he'd call 'em trousers, I suppose, long fingers, slightly hairy wrists, he might be Air sign or Air rising. Why didn't I check out his shoes?

I tend to remember only what, or when, I wish to...

March 11, 1995

I seem to have woken with a Smiths song in my head. Ask.

(Coyness is nice, and
Coyness can stop you
From saying all the things in
Life you'd like to)

It's okay, but I was hoping my experiment would succeed here better than it ever did at home. While falling asleep last night I drove Tales of Brave Ulysses into my head as firmly as possible, just to see if it would sort of spawn an interesting dream or some creative idea, or at least just stick until morning, so that I'd wake up with the tune in my head. I've tried this before, and it's never really worked, but I figured, change of venue, worth a shot.

Waking with a random song in your head can be a form of divination. Lyricomancy or something. What can I divine from Morrissey's words of wisdom? Time to get out and wander a bit.

I'm not much of a tourist; I don't have agendas, programs, things like this. I carry maps, and I wander. I'm in it for the flavor and texture. So if anyone were to ask me the name of the cathedral I drifted into, the tavern where I had a surprisingly delicious soup-and-bread lunch, or the particular graveyard I spent the afternoon exploring, I just couldn't say. I couldn't name the streets they're on either, but I could feel my way back to them. Every place has its own energy or something like that. You just figure where it's coming from and that's where you head. All it takes is realizing you are a part of your surroundings, not separate from them. Basically, we are all part of a giant bowl of cosmic soup. I'm a noodle; you're a split pea. But I digress.

"Relative of yours?"

I looked up into the face of a gravely (poor choice of words?) handsome figure in an old black raincoat, then back to the marker, which read, "Margaret Atkins-Smythe, died March 11, 1945."

"Uh, no, I just stopped here, noticed it was 50 years for her, I mean, since she died. It seemed--synchronous."

"Perhaps it is. Come here often?"

I couldn't help myself; I burst out laughing. "Are you here looking for pick-ups?"

He grinned, "Of course not. But when you spoke, I noticed your American accent and just thought I'd test the waters, so to speak. I meant no harm; please don't be offended."

"Well, you look harmless, I suppose. And anyone who would wander through a graveyard looking for a date might have a more subtle technique?"

"Something like, 'What's a cheerful-looking girl like you doing in a depressing joint like this?'"

I laughed again, then spoke, "But a cemetery isn't depressing, not really. It's not as though there's actually anyone dead, uh, living here. These memorials are for the dead who live out there; those who can't let go. And it's just history for the rest of us."

"All too true," he mused, "but then, you can never really tell who might roam through a place like this. Unsavory types, after hours."

"Or guys in black raincoats hoping to score with an unwitting tourist?"

"Indeed. Buy you a drink?" He smiled warmly and openly. I could sense a trustworthy countenance, and something else, a little weariness, maybe. Clearly he was no threat, and again I felt the synchronicity that had led me to linger at this spot.

"How about hot chocolate?" I pointed toward a restaurant a short distance down the street.

He looked a little surprised, and pleased, saying, "My name is Remus," and held out his arm like a gentleman.

"Mary," I spoke, and lightly took his arm as we started toward the path leading out of the cemetery.

As we walked, I took stock of Remus, a little, not wanting to seem rude by staring. Somewhat taller than me, lean, with light brown hair already showing signs of grey, though he appeared to be in his early to mid-30s. He had a long angular face with a sort of carefully sculptured profile: forehead, nose, lips and chin all precise-looking. From a direct view, though, his features seemed softer. He was animated as he spoke, yet again I had the definite sense that he led a stressful life, or had perhaps been ill recently.

Right away, I asked, "I have never met anyone named Remus before, were your parents into Ancient Rome or something?"

"Actually, yes. You surprise me; not many people recognize the connection. My parents were historians, and travelled extensively before I was born. I have no twin named Romulus, however, being an only child."

"Good thing, if legend is to be believed!" As I spoke he again looked at me with an air of mild surprise.

We stepped into the nearly empty restaurant just as the overcast sky broke open with rain, and both laughed a little at the recognition of good timing.

"Let's sit near the window and watch people outside trying not to get too wet, okay?"

"That sounds fine. It's also a good place to be when having a warm drink with someone you just met and do not entirely trust yet." He spoke the words with a friendly air, and just a touch of amusement. At that point, a waitress came to take our orders, and we both requested hot chocolate and he asked for water as well, which is something I have not observed many people doing since arriving in England.

I spoke, "Well, I don't normally meet people this way, you understand. But I tend to live in my head mostly, and figured this trip would provide a good opportunity to--try being more social. So, then, do you live in this part of London?," I asked, awkwardly deflecting attention, and not entirely sure which part of London we were actually in.

Remus replied, "I'm staying here for a few days, but spend much of my time travelling just now. I am on leave from my job, working on a sort of long-term project. It takes me here and there, so I rarely have time for my real home, which is in a little village north of here. Are you on holiday, or does business bring you to our ancient and misty land?"

"You could call it a holiday. I am attempting to soak up some local culture to use in a book I'm writing, or at least attempting to write. So I'm playing tourist, and learning a great deal as I go along. I want the book to feel as real as possible, and to capture some of the essences of this part of the world. Back home it's generally assumed that all English-speaking people are pretty much the same, but I get a sense of something wilder, yet finer, about this place and its inhabitants. And it's fascinating how many differences there are among you all in a relatively small geographic area. Forgive me, I must sound a little dull, talking my own brand of shop."

"Oh, don't apologize! To be brutally honest, my experiences with American women had led me to a different conclusion than what I am currently witnessing; I'm finding this quite interesting."

"I'll take that as a compliment, but in defense of 'my people,' I might remind you that there are over 270 million of us, from many backgrounds, and we're definitely not all alike." I spoke lightly and smiled, to let him know I wasn't actually offended. In fact, I was, to use the vernacular, taking a fancy to him already, though our time together had spanned only about thirty minutes. He had, cliché alert, this intense, yet lively expression to his eyes, which were a golden hazel, and a definitely attractive curve to his mouth as he listened to me speak. His eyebrows arched in a way that I found very intriguing.

I asked him, "So--may I ask--from what kind of job have you taken leave?"

"Ah, I'm a sort of historian, like my parents. I accepted a teaching post at a secondary school last year, and am now on a kind of sabbatical, doing field research for my department while I'm at it. I had some minor health concerns that demanded a little time away from the stress of day-to-day classes. You know, one thing you do have in common with other Americans I've met is the uncanny ability to extract personal information from a typically private Englishman in a very short period of time."

"Of course I do. We're all born psychoanalyzing each other, you know. We ask one or two innocent-sounding questions and the good stuff just tumbles out. It's in the water. But I hope you don't think I meant to pry..."

"Not at all," Remus paused, "You certainly have the right to know a little something about the man who tried to chat you up in a graveyard." I caught a hint of self-mockery there...

"Ah, so you're admitting it now. I don't need my British/American pocket dictionary to understand that phrase! Do you use this tactic often?"

"Wander through cemeteries hoping to find an attractive, intelligent woman who enjoys grave markers and hot chocolate and knows something about the founding of Ancient Rome? Hardly. It's the stuff of dreams."

Naturally I was charmed. And on we went, talking, laughing, drinking--I switched to herbal tea and he to the "real" thing. I watched him self-consciously take a pill with his water, but said nothing about it. The waitress brought a plate of assorted buns and things, which we both attacked. Eventually, early nighttime was upon us. The sky had cleared. And I felt, well, like a seldom-used switch had been flipped; nerves at attention, waiting further instruction. It's an odd, but exciting sensation.

Here's the best part of the story so far: As we walked out, preparing to part ways, Remus spoke, "You know, I would like very much to spend more time with you, but I don't actually have a phone, travelling and so forth. I could email you from a friend's computer, and we could make a plan?"

He didn't attempt some kind of major play.

I hate the phone.

I love email!

"That sounds great," I replied, "here's my address. I'll definitely look forward to your message. And--I'm glad you decided to--chat me up." We both grinned, and said our goodbyes.�

March 12, 1995

No purple pen today; I am recording my thoughts on my pride and joy: an Apple Powerbook 540c. Here in the apartment I'm using, which is called a flat by the person I've sublet it from, I can plug the phone line directly into this thing, and use a special tool called FTP to share files with my editor across the sea. I can also receive electronic messages, and do research on the World Wide Web. One of the best parts about it is that the phone can never ring while I'm logged on!

I find it more difficult to write naturally and creatively on a keyboard, but it feels so cool and hip to do it this way. Plus, you never know when you might receive an important email, so it's good to keep checking.

I know that tea and conversation may not sound like the most exciting way to get to know someone for most people, but yesterday's experience has put me in a slight state of dizziness. Meeting a man who can match me in pretentious humor, who is intelligent and confident but not overbearing, with a really nice profile and delicious accent to boot, that just doesn't happen every day, or even every year. This feels almost just like when I was fifteen and waiting for my first phone call from what's-his-name, which, when it arrived, was the highlight of my teenaged life. Which brings an interesting question to mind: I cherished those phone calls, every week at first, on Tuesdays, then every other day, then every day, sometimes for hours on end, til my mother got weary of my whispers and giggles and made me hang up. Why do I hate the phone so much now? The ringing feels like such a horrid, noisy invasion of my quietude, and I find invisible yet audible conversation really stressful. Things are much better said in writing or in person.

do-DOO-do. Eudora's quick and polite version of the telephone ring!

Dear Mary,

Having exhausted my supply of charmless conversation openers, I find it necessary to come straight to the point. I enjoyed our time together yesterday, found your company interesting and intriguing, and would be honored if you wished to see me again--perhaps we could meet outside the National Gallery, and see where the weather leads us? Let me know what time is best, my schedule is open for the next few days,

With regards,

Remus

Dear Remus,

I was delighted to receive an email from you, and will be happy to meet you again. I will be visiting with Charlie Chaplin in Leicester Square tomorrow at 11; we can do lunch and the Gallery, if that sounds agreeable.

Cheers,

Mary

Okay, I admit those emails might look overly formal in terms of modern civilization, but really, it's so difficult to sound interested yet not overly interested, and then there's just politeness and nervousness and all the other aspects that factor in. At least for my part. I don't think it's phony, it's simply presenting the bullet-proof side of yourself until you're ready to take your flak jacket off and--what, let them shoot at you? Metaphors are not really my strong suit. I'm just going to back away from the keyboard for now.�

This was a little web project I started several years ago, and had to put off while dealing with an illness. Subsequently, there was a move, computer issues and other things that prevented me from getting back to it. There were two more stories begun; the Goodwin one, and a mail correspondence with Professor Dumbledore, that I cannot find, unfortunately. I was really pleased with the letters, in particular, and keep hoping they'll turn up sometime.

Here are some quotes from men I plan to date. Some I will date as me, and some as a fictional character who is actually me.

Commander Data: "In that particular moment, I was reconfiguring the warp field parameters, analyzing the collected works of Charles Dickens, calculating the maximum pressure I could safely apply to your lips, considering a new food supplement for Spot..."

Professor Dumbledore: "It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that's saying something....My brain surprises even me sometimes."

Elrond: "Never again shall there be any such league of Elves and men; for Men multiply and the Firstborn decrease, and the two kindreds are estranged."

Rupert Giles: "But that's the thrill of living on the Hellmouth! There's a veritable cornucopia of ... of fiends and devils and ... and ghouls to engage. Pardon me for finding the glass half full."

Archie Goodwin: "The trouble with an alarm clock is that what seems sensible when you set it seems absurd when it goes off."

Remus Lupin: "You can exist without your soul, you know, as long as your brain and heart are still working. But you'll have no sense of self anymore, no memory, no...anything. There's no chance at all of recovery. You'll just--exist. As an empty shell. And your soul is gone forever...lost."

Fox Mulder: "If we fail to anticipate the unforeseen or expect the unexpected in a universe of infinite possibilities, we may find ourselves at the mercy of anyone or anything that cannot be programmed, categorized or easily referenced."

Captain Picard: "Time is a companion that goes with us on a journey. It reminds us to cherish each moment, because it will never come again. What we leave behind is not as important as how we have lived."

Wesley Wyndham-Price: "As a point of courtesy, I like to get to know my opponents before I engage them in mortal combat. Do, uh, do you have any hobbies?"

Later on, I might choose some more men to date, but I'm sort of picky. Oh, and you might think it would be difficult to sustain a serious relationship with some of these men, but that's likely because you have a sort of 20th century mixed-up view of what it means to date.There's no "3rd date rule" here, no looking for Mr. Right, no biological clock ticking, no psychologically-induced urge to "settle down." I'm just in it for the dinner and dancing and conversation, okay? Okay. Let's begin.

As it happens, I began several of them, and got very little distance with them. The two that had progressed furthest were the two I can't find. And three of these characters have been killed off by their makers. I dunno how that's supposed to work. So I will have to begin anew. As well, there are definitely a number of new fictional dating candidates that must be included. Not all of the encounters will be romantic in nature.