Barrett

Author's note: I was getting a little tired of the constant Marshall-bashing on the show and decided to find him someone who's worthy of him. Leave my favorite character alone! He's anything but a doofus! Oh, yeah: no infringement is intended by my use of characters and situations, only pure appreciation for a great show.

The first time Marshall saw her was at the Trader Joe's near his apartment, where he had stopped on the way home to pick up a couple of things. Actually, that was the first time he touched her, too, because they both reached for the same block of cheese at the same moment and bashed knuckles.

"Sorry!" He shot her an embarrassed look and backed up a step.

"Hey, don't worry about it. I was just trying to find a Cambozola that didn't expire in three days." The tall brunette who looked to be about his age flashed him a half-smile and then went back to poking through the pile, flipping them over to find the one with the latest date. "Have you tried this one yet? It's my new favorite cheese. The name 'Cambozola' is an amalgam of..."

"...Camembert and Gorgonzola," he finished for her. "It's produced by a single German company and just celebrated its thirtieth anniversary." He shrugged at her raised eyebrows and added, "It's one of my favorites, too."

She looked at him assessingly. "What kind of cracker do you eat it with?" There was a sort of challenge in her voice.

"I always go with the plain water crackers. I find they don't detract from the flavor of the cheese itself."

She nodded in agreement. "I feel the same way. Once I made the mistake of trying those new Gorgonzola crackers, but I discovered they taste like...," she hesitated, trying to think of exactly the right word to use.

"Vomit?" he prompted.

"Exactly. Vomit. Not a good combination." They grinned at one another in a moment of cheese camaraderie; then they both went back to scanning the disrupted pile.

"Here's one that's a week away," he offered, handing her a wrapped triangle.

"Thanks, but go ahead and take it. I need a smaller piece." She hunted a few more seconds and then picked up a block half the size of his, setting it in the basket hanging on her arm. "Well, have a good night."

He watched her stop at the Two-Buck Chuck display to pick out a bottle of white and then disappear toward the checkouts.

The second time he ran into her, about a week later, he did it literally, stepping back onto her foot at the crowded Saturday night opening of an exhibit of fused glass at the Mariposa Gallery.

"Whoops!" She raised her flute of champagne to avoid sloshing it on herself and turned to see who had bumped her. As their eyes met, she looked blank for a moment, trying to place him, and then said, "Watch it, Mr. Cambozola. I only get one glass tonight, so I don't want to waste it."

He apologized, again, and added, "I was looking at the bowl, not where I was going."

"I can see why. It's a brilliant piece. Her style reminds me of the Venetian use of fused mosaics."

"You mean 'millefiori'," Marshall responded. "A thousand flowers."

She looked at him in surprise. "Do you know glass, Mr. ...?"

"Mann. Marshall Mann." He held out his hand and appreciated the strong, brief grip she gave him.

"I'm Barrett Thorsen." They turned together to contemplate the graceful, multi-colored shallow bowl before them. "Have you seen the whole exhibit yet?" she asked. "There are some amazing wall pieces over there. And you haven't told me yet if you're a glass aficionado."

Marshall tilted his head self-denigratingly. "Not really. I've only read a little about it, but I'm starting to appreciate the history behind it." Without thinking, he launched into a mini-lecture on the background on fused glass, which dated back to Mesopotamia and ancient Egypt. Out of reflex, he reined himself in before he could really get rolling, aware that most people, like Mary, were a little put off by his encyclopedic ramblings.

Not everyone, apparently. Barrett was staring at him in fascination, waiting for him to continue.

Honestly, he was a little flustered by her attention. He tried to pick up where he had left off (the 4th century A.D.), but he had lost his train of thought.

"You really DO know your glass," she said admiringly. "I wish you'd run into me earlier, when I first arrived. The exhibit would've been more interesting with my own personal docent." She hesitated a moment and then added, "Are you here with someone, Mr. Mann? If you're not, I'd love to hear more about art glass."

The rest of the evening flew by. For the first time in years, Marshall was in his element, with an intelligent, rapt listener who was able to hold her own on discussions of art, history, and a number of other wide-ranging topics. After the exhibit got a little too overcrowded, he offered to walk Barrett down the block to a coffeehouse he liked, and they talked over espresso and the low-key jazz trio until the owner shooed them out the door.

As they strolled back to the parking lot, enjoying the quiet street, he had a twinge of regret that the night was over. He'd never felt such an instant connection to anyone before, an affinity that was-mostly-intellectual. Unlike everyone else he interacted with, Barrett was able to keep up with him on most topics (German film noir, classic jazz, and Thai cuisine) and even outdistanced him on some (local natural history and Italian coffee). And what she didn't know about she wanted to know about: she propped her chin on her palm and peppered him with questions. He admitted a little guiltily to himself that it was refreshing to have a conversation with someone who didn't roll her eyes in annoyance at his explanations or whack him upside the head when he mentioned French writers.

Barrett stopped next to her Honda Civic, fumbling for the key fob in the messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Opening the door, she turned around to face him: "Thanks for a really enjoyable evening, Marshall. I can't remember when I've had such a good time." She held out her hand, and once again, he was struck by her natural, easy manner and lack of artifice.

"I enjoyed it just as much," he assured her, shaking her hand. "It's not often I get to talk about Fritz Lang with someone I just trampled at a gallery."

She grinned. "No harm, no foul." There was a bit of an awkward moment then, neither of them sure how to end the evening. She finally stopped staring at him long enough to slide into the driver's seat. "Well, good night, and thanks again."

He shut the door and headed toward his truck. He was just about to climb in when he heard Barrett's car pull up beside him. She rolled the window down and leaned out.

"If you're not doing anything tomorrow, I'm going out to Petroglyph National Monument. Would you like to come? I've only seen a little bit of it since I moved here." She hesitated a moment and then added, "Unless you're busy..." Marshall realized she had thoughtfully left him an opening to decline the invitation gracefully.

"I'd like that," he said frankly. "I haven't been there in years. Are you planning on hiking?" he added, and she nodded.

"There are a couple of easy trails to the petroglyphs. I'll bring lunch, if you don't mind driving. Your truck's better suited to the terrain than my car." She gave him her cell phone number, a meeting place, and a time, and then the two of them left for home.