She doesn't know I'm writing this. I'm slipping it in, I'll tell her about it later. I know she wants to do this on her own, but I'm a journalist, damn it. I have to write.

My name is Lois Lane. I suppose you've figured that out by now, but as Scribe says, "Never underestimate the potential for stupidity in the human race." If you already guessed, that wasn't meant for you. If it applied to you, you probably don't know enough to be insulted, anyway.

I don't want to spend a lot of time going over old territory, so I'll be brief about what's gone before.

I didn't know what to think when Superman showed up on my balcony, trying to put the moves on a filthy, bedraggled, wild eyed woman. Hmph, artificial reparation, my eye. That line was old the day after the Red Cross invented the maneuver.

The story was a little bizarre, but it's not like we haven't dealt with interdimensional travel before, right? It's just usually on a grander scale. This was much smaller, more personal. No 'save the universe'. Just one very bewildered, and very bewildering woman.

I was happy to take her in, for the reasons I gave her. Besides, she smelled of 'story' even more than she smelled of whatever had been on the floor of that alley. And I never could resist a good story. I figured she'd make a good roommate. And I wasn't thinking in a sexual way. I promise. That didn't happen till I brought the nightshirt into the bathroom.

There she was, knees crooked up, chin sunk in the water, long strands of damp red brown hair waving on the bath surface, and about two acres of startled blue eyes. Eyes left, Lois, I told myself. But when she made that comment about not being able to walk around naked, I got a familiar, funny little thrill. She was being flippant (she has her serious moments. Not many, but they're there). Mixed signals. I was going to get a lot of mixed signals in the next few days, as bad as if someone was speaking half in morse code, half in semaphore.

When she showed up in the nightshirt, she looked like a very large twelve year old, sleepy and shining. That was until she spread out the sides of the gown to demonstrate its width. That pulled the cloth over her chest tight enough to show breasts, and I started wondering. The comment about two in a nightshirt gave me a wicked impulse to crawl in with her and see what happened. Good thing I didn't. She'd have probably gone into shock.

When she talked about her mama controlling her life, I thought I had a handle on it. The boys have their daddies, we girls have our mommies. I hadn't played that role before, but there was no reason why I couldn't, I thought. But if she was pining for someone back in her home dimension, it wouldn't be fair to take advantage, so I kept putting out cautious feelers. Good thing.

Turns out her mama was the biological kind. She seemed to be blissfully ignorant of any other possibilities, so I decided that I'd better move very slowly and cautiously here. It was a good idea, but at times Scribe is about as slow and cautious as a freight train on a mountains side with the brakelines cut.

She had my head screwed around on the shopping expedition. She totally rejected the feminine outerwear, choosing clothes that would be more appropriate for Jimmy Olsen. All right, they looked cute on her, I won't argue about that. But just when I'd about decided I had a butch on my hands, she bypassed the boxers and bought perfectly acceptable panties. She wanted the shoes, but not the tie. I was beginning to see what she meant about labels. It was beginning to look like she wouldn't be neatly slotted anywhere.

She was sweet and grateful about the clothes, but oh, she was a nudge about the hair! I thought, very strongly, that she needed to keep it for a touch of femininity. I hadn't planned on taking her to the club so soon, I didn't think she was ready for it. But she sulked and pouted so about the hair, I caved in. I could see the other woman at the next table, who was with a very spoiled looking young one, giving me commiserative looks. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I wasn't even in a relationship, and here I was being manipulated.

Again, for those of you who are perceptually impaired: I'm bi. So, yes, I was considering a relationship with her. I like guys well enough from time to time, but they're not my snog of choice, and haven't been since pre-junior high.

But she was unlike the other women I'd been with so far, very confusing. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me, given the fact that she was defying several thousand laws of physics by just existing.

She took to Lavender's Green like a gasping goldfish being slipped back into its bowl. I kept waiting for her to start asking questions about the same sex dancers, the guys wearing makeup, the girls wearing business suits. Nothing. She took it all in with bright eyed interest and a small smile. I began to wonder exactly what things were like in her home dimension.

She almost caused a riot at the bar. When I come back from the powder room, I find some rich bitch jane trying to put the moves on her, and she's just sitting there politely studying the hawk's business card. I suppose I shouldn't have left her alone after that but, well, spritzers 'do that' to me, and I had to take another comfort break.

This time it looked like she was trying to seduce the whole room when I came back. My God, they allow them to sing songs like that in public? It was so... raw. Very explicit images, not the misty romance we usually hear. Excitement was moving through the crowd. I saw quite a few butts being grabbed. She's up there, moaning and gasping the song, reaching out to the audience like she wants to stroke them, and the entire time her eyes are just shining with joy. And I realize she doesn't really know what she's doing. She's just having fun.

She cuts it short when she sees me, and I feel a tiny bit guilty for spoiling the fun. That is until that little blonde twist tries to give her phone number. No way. It's her life, and all that, but I feel responsible for her, and she's not going to go diving into one night stands if I can help it.

I got her out of the club and hailed a taxi. Inside I told her, "Roll down your window. You need some fresh air."

"Sure." She obliged. "But I'm not drunk, you know. I'm a long way from drunk" She giggled. "Scary, ain't it?"

"Are you always like that when you drink?"

"Mmmmm. Actually, that was what I'm usually like, but cranked up a couple of notches. Usually by the time I'm that loose, I'm about to fall down, so I don't do as much. Watch this." She quickly stuck her head out the window. She panted rapidly while her braid whipped in the wind, starting to unravel. She sat back down and grinned at me charmingly. "Quick impression of a beagle on a road trip."

I'm trying to decide between snapping at her and laughing when she suddenly lunges over and hugs me. I freeze. She's big and warm, and her arms swallow me up. Her face rests briefly against my shoulder, the wiry silk of her escaping hair touching my face. I'm about to melt when she pulls back, holding my arms, and gives me a little shake. "Do you know what this means?" Her face is alight with discovery.

I croak, "What does it mean?"

"It means I'm finally one of the Cool Kids!" She lets go, sitting back. I sway after her, missing the enveloping softness, then catch myself and sit up straight.

"Cool kids?"

"You know, there are always Cool Kids. It starts out the second kids start spending time in groups. There's the Cool Kids, and there's everyone else. It's the same everywhere in my world, and I bet it's the same here. High school, college, even in the workplace. They're the ones who always have someone to eat lunch with, someone to sit on the bus with. They never get chosen last for anything. People never call them 'What'syername'. I've always been fringe, a little too oddball to fit into any well defined clique. But here..." Her voice sank into glad wonder. "Here my kind of weird doesn't seem to be a social stigma. To quote Sally Fields, "They liked me. They really liked me!"

What was I supposed to say to that? She didn't seem to be aware of the caliber of attention she'd been attracting. I believe she just marked it down to people being naturally interested in something or someone quirky, and outside their usual experience.

How could she flirt so shamelessly with the world, and then sit there practically dripping with innocense? That hug had told me that she might not know that there were different levels of teasing, and that she'd moved up onto the adult playing field.