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by Jane Eyre

You're on vacation in London and because you are interested in art photography you decide to lie down in a park in Notting Hill with your camera pointed upward, taking pictures every few minutes, to get a  narrative of shots of the sky -- kites passing over, children running past you throwing balls, the variations in the cumuli of clouds.  After about an  hour you are startled to see Eddie Izzard appear in your lens. You click a picture, and then move the camera to look up at him.

"Hello - are you okay? What are you doing?" he asks. You begin to explain yourself, trying to get up, but because of
your nervousness you slip and fall, cutting your knee on a rock in the grass. 

"Oh, you're bleeding!" Eddie exclaims. "I live just over there, come with me and we'll patch you up."  You're not about to turn this offer down, so you let Eddie help you up and you introduce yourself as you walk to his house, his arm resting
comfortingly against the small of your back. He leads you through a living room sparsely decorated except for the movie posters on the walls, and into a kitchen which looks designer and rarely used.  Asking you to sit down, Eddie leaves you momentarily to find disinfectant and bandages.

"This might hurt a bit," he warns when he returns, pouring you a half-glass of Glenfiddich; "the whiskey might help." He pours himself some as well, you notice. As he examines your wound, it becomes apparent that you will have to remove your jeans to be bandaged. At his suggestion, you take them off, thankful that you are wearing reasonably sexy black underwear today.

"Okay, here we go," Eddie says, bringing the cotton ball of antiseptic toward your skinned knee. You gulp the whiskey, but it's stronger than you expected, and you end up spilling half of it on your shirt and his, as he's bending over you.

"I'm sorry!" you exclaim, but he's laughing, and so you laugh, too. "Just a little extra alcohol to sterilize the wound," he says, drawing the cotton ball gently across your cut, and smiling into your eyes. After applying a band-aid, Eddie suggests you both take off your shirts and throw them in the washer. "I'll lend you some clothes from my closet upstairs
for now," he says.

So, you find yourself, clad only in underwear and (thankfully!) matching bra, following a topless Eddie upstairs to his bedroom, noting how his fake-leather pants cling enticingly to his fit and full derriere as he walks (does he do "Buns of Steel"? you wonder). You are amazed that his room looks very much as you had imagined it -- amber lengths of wood on the walls, much like a Lake Tahoe condo, a king-size bed, a walk-in closet nearly the size of your apartment, a balcony with -- of course! -- a small but expensive telescope, and an adjoining bathroom, where he ushers you, handing you a long red Gautier blouse. "Put this on, and I'll find you something to go with it," he says.

You enter the bathroom, noticing in the mirror that your face is flushed and unusually radiant. You slip the blouse over your head, but the buttons catch in your hair, and try as you might, you can't untangle them.
"How does it fit?" Eddie asks, and, terribly embarrassed, you explain your predicament. He comes in to help you, bending over you as you stand by the sink, one hand in your hair and the other working the buttons on your back. Finally he frees you, and for a moment you are both paused, his bare chest touching your back, the flimsy blouse unloosed and floating above your head. 

"I'd love to see your telescope," you say weakly, as he turns you slowly around.
 
The End.