From: "S.E. Cohen" <stryder_xf@hotmail.com>
Date: Sat, 14 Aug 1999 14:23:02 PDT
Subject: "Catalyst For Thought"
Source: direct

Title: "Catalyst For Thought"
Author: Stryder
Email: stryder_xf@hotmail.com
Classification: MSR
Spoilers: nope, not a one
Summary: A wee vignette explaining how simple musings about mysterious 
people can become a
world-wide syndicated television show.

Dedication: To my own "brother" Chris.... stop making fun of XF-fan fiction! 
  ;)  Also, my editor
Chris.  And my cousin Christy. See a pattern here?


					*   *   *   *   *


Cr-r-rack.

The knuckles in her hands flexed back and forth as she warmed up her hands 
for the next round of
writing, and placed them on her keyboard. A positively malevolent grin split 
her face as words
began to appear on the screen.

"Wait," she thought, " 'positively malevolent' sounds pretty hokey.  How 
about 'diabolically
deleterious' or 'frantically fiendish?'"

The frantically fiendish grin that had faltered for the briefest fraction of 
time respread itself across
her face like mayonnaise left a bit too long out on the counter, but fell 
away just as quickly.

Aloud, "I've really got to work on my metaphors.  Prof. Hennessy would kick 
me out of Lit class
in a heartbeat if he heard that one."

She sighed,  wondered if it was the habit of all writers to editorialize 
their own lives.  If she was
talking to a good-looking man, her mind would butt in with a passage: "She 
spoke softly to the
Fair Unknown, softly brushing dark wisps from her face.  He was intrigued 
and asked for her
number, never knowing what life had in store for the two of them or where 
this conversation
would eventually lead."  It never turned out in that Harlequin-Romance 
style, though.  Usually,
after she asked for directions or petted the dog accompanying him, Mr. 
Fabulous would stroll off
to meet his girlfriend.

Or, as she studied in the library: "Through the glass of the library 
windows, passerby could
glimpse a young woman, sitting alone as she turned the leaves of a dusty 
tome.  Though not
marked with any great beauty, there was a mystique about her as she stared 
down at the pages
with shadowed blue eyes."

Shaking her head, she scooped up her cat, who was stalking her bare toes 
seemingly with the
intention of catching one for dinner.  "I've gone bananas, that's all, 
Percy.  I'm twenty-three, no
man in my life, no chance of having one, and the stress of college and 
everything else is getting to
me."

She settled on the couch, holding the yowling feline, who was miffed at 
having her skillfully-
executed hunt disturbed.  Retreating to the edge of the couch, she stared at 
her mistress with her
gleaming cat gaze.  What was she thinking?  Probably questioning why the 
lesser beings were
given so much authority in this world, not the least of which was the 
responsibility of naming a
cat.  "Percy, indeed.  It was like naming people after animals."  In a Cat's 
mind, people were
people.  Animals were animals.  You should name them as such.

Oh.... there goes more editorializing.

It was time to get out, dress up, paint the town.  She swept the cat off the 
sofa to prevent her
from leaving half of her fur there ( "Of course, I could always wear it as a 
coat and say that I
bought it at Saks!") .  Into the shower for ten minutes, no more, since the 
pipes had a tendency to
give out in this dorm.  Primping was blow-drying and a coat of mascara.  She 
threw on a nubby
wool sweater from J. Crew, black jeans and Steve Madden flats.  She was a 
college student.  That
was dressing up.

So, fifty minutes later at the Black Pearl Inn, she settled into a corner 
booth and observed the
surroundings.  Oh, she'd visited Manhattan's bars before, been to some real 
dives, but this was
not one of them.  It was just as it sounded- "black pearl" being the 
decorative theme, with dark,
shiny counters and tabletops, set under soft, muted lights. A blues band 
played quietly near the
front. A few well-known pictures hung on the walls.  Artsy, yet tranquil. 
Some places were for
partying, some were for relaxing.  This was the latter.  Perhaps not every 
twentysomething's
favorite bar, but she liked to feel a bit atypical at times.  Besides, with 
her trust fund, she could
afford it- another concept not usually synonymous with "college student."

Taking stock of the other patrons, she settled in.  It was not extremely 
busy, but a few other
customers were present. Nearby were two women seated at a table, a couple 
were engrossed in
deep discussion by a bay window, and one Unknown Quantity held the booth in 
the corner.

"Can I get you a drink, miss?"  She looked up to see a waiter hovering by.

"A cosmopolitan, please."  No beer for her.  Frats drank beer, but she hated 
the taste of fermented
barley.  Blech.

She flipped out a small sketch pad.  Art was one of her side pursuits.  Her 
father had wanted her
to be a serious artist, ( "Follow your dreams and never mind the money!") 
but her mother's heart
was set on her being a lawyer.  Choosing neither profession in a fit of 
independence, she had
chosen to be a journalist.  Her upcoming internship at the New York Times 
looked to be a great
start for a promising career; it was fortunate that her father had pulled a 
few strings after he got
over the fact that the next Georgia O' Keefe would not be coming from their 
family.  If anyone
would be famous for their art, it would probably be her brother, an aspiring 
actor/director.

In a regular restaurant, it might be considered rude to draw people without 
their permission.
Here, it was not so much an insult as a curiosity, that a lone woman should 
draw your likeness,
perhaps even flattering.  It was New York, after all.  Not much would 
surprise the average city-
dweller.  Besides, no one really had a good view of her, so she sketched 
away without pang or
peril of conscience.

Charcoal was her preferred medium, but as coal in the raw tended to make for 
messy hands (it
was still a bar, after all), she used special pencils that were easily 
transported and used.
Uncapping it, she nibbled on the tip to get a good line, and went to work.

The women in the center of the room were easily captured on paper.  Their 
mildly animated
gestures and gaudily made-up faces made for an excellent picture.  
Unabashedly, she listened to
their conversation.

"...and I never thought I would see the day when they finally managed to 
knock a little sense into
them, really!  I mean it, Gladys, why can't some humans be born with common 
sense, I mean that.
If Marvin would just stop drinking, he wouldn't be in so much trouble."  The 
woman paused in
her diatribe to sip her martini.

She tuned out.  She had an aunt who tended to rave like that at times, going 
on and on in the
Yiddish grandmother style.  Oy, vey, it would drive you crazy if you 
listened!

Flipping the page and licking her pencil tip again, she turned her attention 
to the Unknown Factor.
Dark hair, business suit, drumming his fingers on the table, it looked as 
though he was waiting for
someone to show up.  Not interesting enough to sketch, she decided.  In her 
early days as a
fledgling art student, she was never picky about what kind of person she 
sketched, but as years
passed the realization hit her that suits were not the best people for 
drawing.  Too often, they
wanted to do some art of their own- nude photography, body art, that sort of 
thing.  Nope.  No
Wall Street-ers for her, thank you, Mr. Buffett.

The couple by the window were somewhat older than she'd thought, she 
realized at second
glance.  The man was nearly completely bald, probably in his sixties, while 
the woman was
perhaps a decade younger.  They talked softly, exchanging glances every so 
often.  How sweet!
she thought.  Elderly people that were still in love!  Her own parents had 
divorced when she was
twelve, and it always aroused in her a sort of

Though too far to hear them, she could see the face of the lady as the man 
spoke to her.  It was
lined- life had been hard for her- but her eyes spoke of empathy, of 
understanding.  She smiled at
something he said, and the years dropped away, revealing the beauty that had 
been there in youth.
The man nodded, took his drink and touched it to hers.

She was enchanted.  It was like a fairy tale, graying in the dust of a 
hidden library, waiting for
ages until the right person came along to open it. She raised the pencil- 
but dropped it. Somehow
she could not capture this moment.  It was too private, too precious, too 
sacred.  Too much
theirs, and she had no right to interrupt it, New York or not.

The man stood to leave, and offered his arm in a touching gesture of 
old-time chivalry.  The
woman rose, turned to pick up her purse- and the door opened.

Sweeping in with the lightly falling snow came another man, shorter and a 
bit younger than the
first, nearer to the age of the woman.  He wore a dark trenchcoat and his 
hair was graying at the
temples. He carried a briefcase. A businessman? Likely.

Her attention was drawn again to the woman, who gave a small cry of joy and 
hugged the
newcomer heartily. The woman's face was beatific with joy, almost 
unrecognizable to the tired
expression she had worn only a few moments earlier.  He drew away, held her 
by the shoulders,
listening to her speak in tones vibrant with emotion.

"...never thought I would see you again.  It's been too long.  Too long, but 
I am so thankful that
you've come back, finally."

"I don't care anymore," he told her.  "No more chasing dreams.  I didn't 
realize what I had when
I had it.  Now I do."

The elder came over and laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder.  He 
smiled up at him, and the
three walked out, the stranger's arm tightly tucked around the woman.

She stared at the closed door with round eyes.  What a scene! Right out of a 
movie, it was!  No
guys she knew talked like that.  It was more like, "Hey, babe, if you're not 
going to put out, then
get out."  Real gentlemen.

The pair stopped by the glass window while the other man walked on, holding 
each other as the
sleet came down upon them. For one moment all the cynicism she had ever held 
about men and
love fell away. This was love.  Forget Hollywood, forget Harlequin romance 
novels. This was the
real thing.

And they walked away.

In her mind, she began to outline a story about them.  Was it an 
international intrigue that had
separated two lovers for many years, only to have them reunite when they 
were no longer in the
first flush of youth?  Was it Or was it a simple misunderstanding that had 
kept them apart so many
years?  And what did the tall man have to do with it?

Her attention was drawn to the man in the corner booth.  He watched the 
couple, too, but it was
not appreciation in his eye.  It was more a murderous glint.  He flexed his 
fist around the delicate
stem of the wineglass he held, and checked his watch.

Ooh!  Intrigue!  Excitement!  More elements of a great novel.

Time to go.  When she began to add in secondary characters, it usually meant 
that she'd had one
drink too many.

Back at her apartment, she undressed and threw on an old t-shirt.  On second 
thought, she
removed it and put on a frilly, pretty nightgown.

"I can always dream," she chuckled.


Standing by the window, her expression grew thoughtful.  She wondered if 
ever she would find
such intense, undying love in her own life.  How did one person ever come to 
love another like
that?  Only dire, dangerous circumstances and long separation such a rare 
kind of devotion.
She smiled at the utter seriousness of her thoughts, but the smile fell away 
as she felt the lone tear
streaking down her cheek.  Tears?  "Silly, silly," she scolded herself, 
cynicism fully restored.

But as she looked out the window again, she reconsidered.  "Maybe not so 
silly....

She picked up the phone, dialed.  As her brother answered, she grinned and 
began:

"Chris, I have an idea for your next project..."


                        *  *  *  *  *

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