Writing a Story

I joined Izzy and Marie at the table in the cafe. They were nice girls, and we enjoyed chatting, though I'd never managed to get anywhere with either of them. I think they both had long-term boyfriends elsewhere. Izzy was tall, with long blonde hair; Marie was short and lively.
  At a nearby table was a man on his own. He had a book open in front of him, but was gazing intently at something on the far side of the room.
   "That's Professor Quentin", said Marie.
   Now that I'd seen him in the flesh, I immediately recognised the great T.V. pundit. His jaw looked bluer than on the screen; I supposed it had been lightened with makeup. I commented that he looked rather sinister. The girls giggled: I guessed they were in awe of him.
   "You should write a story about him", said Izzy. "Okay", I replied. One of my few distinctions was that I'd actually had a couple of stories published. I began to ponder the possibilities. He would, of course, have to appear under a pseudonym, but still be recognisable....
  Professor Quentin arose and passed our table on his way out. He stopped to exchange a few pleasantries with Izzy and Marie, but acknowledged me only with a nod. The word on the grapevine was that he was inclined to be impatient with students who were less clever than him (i.e. about 95% of us), but always had a weakness for pretty girls. I wondered if this could form the basis of a story. Should he be involved in something criminal, perhaps? No; too melodramatic. What then?
  We all left the cafe. Izzy had a heavy bagful of books, and with old-world chivalry I offered to carry them for her. But really my mind was occupied with how to write a story about Professor Quentin.