A lithe young figure stood at the edge of the bridge, staring out at the river below, and the beckoning dark embrace of the water, and of death. The bridge lights reflected off the water, but other than that and the headlights of the occasional car, it was dark. It was 4 a.m.
Catherine Vincent, known as Cat to her friends and fellow club-goers, was dressed in black for the occasion. She wore a little black dress, black stockings, and black pumps. Her long brunette hair hung in waves to her shoulders. She was twenty-seven years old.
She had come east from Iowa to get a chance in the theater, but she'd had little luck landing roles that would pay the rent. Recently, she had broken up with her boyfriend. She didn't know anyone else in the city well. He hadn't been any good for her, but he'd been someone to do something for, and that had helped her feel her lack of success less keenly. Now she felt she had nothing. She didn't want to return to Iowa a failure and face a chorus of "I told you so."
She dropper her purse to the ground. Her ID was inside; she figured that would help the police identify the body.
She climbed the fence. She was agile, and though her clothes were not made for this kind of adventure, she didn't care if they got ripped. It would all be the same to her when they fished her out of the water. All a nothingness.
Cars sped by occasionally as she made the ascent, illuminating her in the glare of their headlights. Perhaps they didn't notice her or failed to comprehend what they were seeing, but their passage seemed to agree with her perception that the city was cold and uncaring.
She reached the top. She paused a few seconds, not to reconsider, but because she felt that the moment between life and death merited a little solemnity. Then she pushed off.
Strong hands, covered with thin leather gloves, grabbed her and pulled her back. She fought, using all the advantage of height. The figure below her was also dressed in black -- T-shirt, jeans, and a mask that covered his face. Despite her better position, the stranger was too strong. He set her down again on the bikeway beside the road.
A sleek black car was parked there, hazards flashing.
He opened the passenger door, pushed her inside, and closed the door on her. She tried to open it, but it didn't unlock. The man stepped into the road and moved around the car to slip into the driver's side door.
He had her purse in hand and fished out her wallet. He looked at her driver's license, dropped the wallet into the purse, and handed the purse to her.
In moments the car was blazing forward.
"Why?" the man asked.
"Why what?" She was annoyed, but interested in the mystery of the man. She looked at him in profile. The mask covered his features, except for his steel gray eyes, which reflected the streetlights.
"Why choose death?"
"My boyfriend left me," she said. It was an explanation that she thought would satisfy his curiosity and stop further questions.
"There is more," he said.
"I am all alone in New York."
"There is still more," he said, maddeningly.
"I can't get a role in a play."
"More," he said.
"My life has no meaning," she said, daring him to debate it.
"Do you want there to be meaning?"
That wasn't how this argument went. "I suppose," she said. "Who doesn't?"
"If there was, would you want to live?"
"I suppose," she said.
"I can provide you with meaning."
She snorted. "I doubt it."
"Suppose for a moment that I could, whatever sort of meaning that was. Would you want it?"
"Yes."
"What would you do, for meaning?"
"Anything, I suppose."
He smiled slightly.
"That's exactly what will be asked of you, Catherine Vincent. Anything."
It took her a moment to remember he had her ID, and had read her name. "Cat, to my friends," she said.
"I prefer Catherine," he said, maddeningly.
She refused to give up. "Why?" she asked, deliberately ambiguous.
"Why what?" he replied, as she had before, but with curiosity rather than annoyance.
"Why choose life?" she asked, smirking at the clever way she had reversed the flow of argument on him. "Why did you rescue me?"
