Grissom
The
lecture was fascinating. If there wasn’t a grander
reason for this particular outing tonight I might have stayed and
chatted with
Doctor Kammelman afterwards for an hour at least; the man gave a
mesmerizing
lecture and certainly knew his topic. It’s becoming a rarer
treat these days to
hear this sort of presentation in person, and I’m very glad
that Sara invited
me to this one.
Which
is to say, the evening was off to a wonderful start.
After my initial embarrassment at her apartment door it was nice to be
able to
regain my slightly dented dignity. Sara had a soft giggle at my
expense, but in
truth I had to admit it must have looked amusing with the Picantos tag
still on
my jacket. Fortunately I was too distracted by the lovely sight of Sara
herself, dressed up and looking sleekly elegant. And she was wearing a
scarf,
which was enough to tweak my libido in a sharp sweet note of desire;
it’s odd
what can become a fetish, if you let it. Still, the way it flowed along
her
slender neck, and fluttered with every step . . . difficult not to
imagine it
being the only light, delicate accessory draped across her pale body---
I am rapidly losing my
scientific objectivity in
this seduction.
Fortunately
Sara had yet to develop mind-reading powers and
I have had years of practice at a poker face. I escorted her to the
car,
remembering to open the door for her, and off we went. The momentary
awkwardness of the first few minutes wore off when I asked Sara what
she knew
of the Bog People. More than I did, apparently, and her shy but
informative
recitation of facts drew to a close as we parked nearly fifteen minutes
later.
I remembered that Michel Hall was the one nearest to the tennis courts
and
managed to find a spot suitably close.
We
were neither early nor late, and I was able to find us
seats reasonably close to the front. Given the number of people already
here,
it looked to be a full house; Sara scanned the crowd behind us with
amusement.
“Looks like a big draw for an anthro talk.”
“Ancient
death is as classic a topic as the identity of
Shakespeare or the fate of the Romanovs,” I replied. Sara
laughed at that,
nodding a bit. We settled down as a man ambled towards the front of the
hall,
his jacket pockets filled with notes, his entire attention preoccupied
with the
bit of paper in his hands. When he’d reached the podium he
looked out at us,
and slowly read the note aloud.
“Good
evening, my name is Doctor Ari Kammelman.” He looked
over his glasses at us all in the crowd. “I wrote that this
morning because my
assistant Genevieve is constantly reminding me that I need to introduce
myself
at the beginning of each lecture. So that’s for YOUR benefit,
since I’m
perfectly aware of who I am. Frankly, I see my reflection in the mirror
every
morning, so I’ve never had trouble identifying
myself.”
Polite
laughter greeted this, and immediately the crowd
began to warm up to the man. I admired his dry, self-deprecating
presentation
as he motioned to his assistant to begin the PowerPoint presentation
while he
paced up and down in front of the screen, talking about his background
and
qualifications. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Sara locked in
on his
every word, and an unreasonable pang of jealousy vibrated through me at
the
sight.
I want Sara’s
attention all to myself.
A
selfish desire, and one that I realized I’d harbored since
the day I’d met her. This startled me, and I spent a few long
minutes examining
it while Doctor Kammelman pointed out details on a projected map of the
bog.
I
wanted Sara to be focused on me; that was one of the
underlying motivations for why I kept her close, both professionally
and
personally. It was why I balked at pairing her with anyone other than
the night
shift crew. Why I didn’t want to hear gossip about her
personal life. Why I
made it my business to be there when she needed counseling, or someone
to talk
to.
Why
I hated knowing she was getting close to Greg.
A
flush of shame heated my face and I missed a portion of
the lecture as I considered my own motives in regards to seducing Sara
and came
to two bare and painful conclusions, both of them obvious now.
I love
Sara.
I’m terrified
of her knowing that.
The
stress of the revelation made my heartbeat pound loudly
in my ears; I could feel it thundering through me, making me slightly
chilled
and shaky. I swallowed hard and tried to refocus on Doctor Kammelman
lecture,
but the bare truth of my dual epiphany surged through me, making it
difficult
to concentrate. Have you ever had your own pulse echo a single sentence
in your
mind, creating a mantra you cannot escape? I heard it rattling in my
head,
syncopated to the bu-bump, bu-bump of my own heartbeat. Ilove-Sara,
Ilove-Sara, Ilove-Sara in
a steady rhythm all through me.
I
relaxed into it, slowly finding acceptance to the truth of
those words.
Ilove-Sara
The
more I repeated it, the more obvious it became. Yes, a
truth that had been there all along, growing steadily from the day
we’d first
met to this moment now, under the low lights of the Michel lecture hall.
Ilove-Sara
How
could I, a
scientist trained in objective observation, have missed that? It seemed
as
clear as a fingerprint in graphite powder now; as apparent as an India
ink
footprint on my heart—
That
was when I felt Sara’s gentle squeeze on the sleeve of
my jacket, pulling my attention away from the slightly torqued similes
I was
indulging in. She shot me an uncertain smile, and I looked into her
face,
wondering if she would see the change in me.
“Grissom?”
“Sara,”
I murmured. I had nearly said ‘Ilove-Sara’ out
loud,
and THAT would have been awkward. As it was she looked at me with far
too much
perception and I forced myself to work up a small smile.
“You
went sort of pale for a moment. Migraine?”
I
shook my head, touched and relieved to keep my personal
insight private a while longer; it was still so new and tender within
me. Sara
flashed me a slightly doubtful smile, but I countered her concern by
taking her
hand and letting my fingers interweave with hers.
Fifteen
feet and three rows in front of us Doctor Kammelman
continued to talk animatedly, but my attention had shifted to the warm
pressure
and strength of Sara’s palm pressed to mine. I
wasn’t prepared for the kiss of
skin, her flesh to mine, willingly and warmly tightening in my grip.
Holding
hands is so very . . . intimate. At least here in
the culture Sara and I share. A man and a woman might meet in a bar and
kiss
and have sex, but oddly, that isn’t as profoundly personal as
sharing the soft
interlock of fingers in a caress of trust and touch.
I’d
held Sara’s hands before—when I took her home after
her
DUI, and again when she’d told me the tragedy of her
childhood. In both cases
it was a matter of seeking and giving comfort; the oldest, sweetest
reason for
holding hands. Those times had been borne of compassion.
But
now . . . now the circumstances were different, and I
felt it in the grip of our fingers as they wound around each other
restlessly.
There was a degree of comfort here, yes, but beyond that was an amazing
sensual
interplay as well. Sara’s thumb stroked the soft webbing
between my own thumb
and index finger, waking up all sorts of ticklish responses. I kept my
eyes on
Doctor Kammelman but was aware that my attention was sorely divided
between his
lecture and Sara’s teasing touches.
And
my own fingers kept . . . wandering; responding to her
soft caresses with ones of their own. I nearly laughed out loud at the
realization that we were playing footsie with our fingers as we both
tried to
keep our attention on the presentation being made in front of us. The
professor’s assistant had rolled out a cart holding several
realia pieces on
it, and I felt Sara’s grip tighten in mine with anticipation.
I allowed myself
to smile a bit.
So
we held hands through the entire lecture. I certainly
didn’t want to let go, and Sara seemed willing to let me. It
took a while for
me to stop marveling at how I felt to touch her so possessively. Over
the
sweetness of it all was a comforting sense of . . . security. Sara was
there,
right there with me as the evidence of our palms and fingers kept
reminding me.
Her hand was slender; strong, and when I first took it in mine it had
been
cool, but it warmed in my clasp.
When
the lecture ended, I let go reluctantly to applaud, and
made sure to glance at Sara first, hoping she understood how moved I
had been
to touch her. She flashed me a shy smile and turned to clap for the
professor
along with the rest of the audience around us. On stage Doctor
Kammelman waved
in embarrassment and insisted on bringing out his assistant to take
credit as
well. The house lights came up and people began to rise and file out,
talking
and making plans. Several folks had gone down to the front to speak
with
Kammelman or look more closely at the realia.
“Did
you want to ask him any questions?” I asked Sara, who
looked longingly at the cart. She turned her glance to me and I nodded,
showing
I was willing to do whatever she wanted.
“Nnnnnnot
really,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t mind
looking at
that skull, but I doubt we’re allowed to handle
anything.”
“Probably
not,” I agreed gently. I followed her out of the
row of seats and up the aisle to the doors of the lecture hall; when we
stepped
out the soft mauve of fading sunset was shifting into the violet of
twilight.
The streetlights were coming on, and the air was cooler as the
sprinklers
sprang to life.
Boldly
(for me
anyway) I took Sara’s hand once more, surprising her a little
I think, but her
fingers laced with mine and we both glanced down at them this time,
then at
each other.
Jacta
alea est.
She
smirked at me and I loved the quick quirk of her
dimples. “You’re holding my hand,
Grissom,” came her observation. I nodded
briefly.
“And
you’re holding mine. Amazing how such an action can be
passive and active at the same time.”
“Yeeeeeahh,”
was her only verbal response, but I didn’t fail
to notice the sparkle in her eyes. We walked to the car slowly, and I
was again
reluctant to release her fingers even if only to open the car door for
her. I
helped her in, delighting in the little graceful moves she made when
tucking
her scarf out of the way, and got in myself on the driver’s
side.
“So—“
came her forthright comment. I kept my eyes forward,
but managed a smile.
“So
the night has barely begun. I was thinking that while
it’s too early for dinner in our case, maybe a good cup of
tea?”
Out
of the corner of my eye I caught her nod and felt the
little knot in my stomach ease a bit. I’d been ninety percent
sure she’d agree,
but the thought that she might say ‘no’ was still
there.
We
drove on, quietly discussing the lecture, rehashing some
of the more pertinent points and highlights and I let Sara lead the
conversation as I listened to her contented tone. She spoke more
slowly, and I
realized that it was because she wasn’t competing for my
attention the way she
so often had to at a crime scene.
Sara
needs—deserves—more attention than I give her.
That is the first thing I can change.
“
. . . And if it wasn’t for the fact that you can’t
make a
decent salary at it, I’d probably be happy with a
curatorship. Grissom?”
“Hmm?”
“Where
are we going?” she asked me, shooting a sideways
stare at me. I pointed with my bearded chin.
“The
Mile Chai Club. It that all right?”
In
answer I caught a distinct blush along her cheekbones and
a twitch of her mouth. Sara looked away and then back at me, laughing
softly.
“You are . . . taking this whole seduction thing seriously,
aren’t you?”
A
flare of uncertainty hit me then, hard and deep; I gripped
the steering wheel a little more tightly as I fought the frustration
and fear
within my stomach. Then Sara reached over, sliding her left hand along
my
thigh.
Oh God.
I
know I made a sound then; something low and a bit helpless
but she had no idea of the impact of that little gesture of hers: so
unexpectedly
sensual and so gentle at the same time.
“Yes,”
I managed to grit out, tightening my jaw. “I am,
utterly.”
A
second later,
unable to control my own foolishness I risked asking, “Is it
working?”
At
the answering grin from Sara, sweet and deep, accompanied
by a flutter of her dark lashes, vaporized my doubts in the unexpected
heat of
her gaze.
I
ordered tea in a bit of a daze; Sara’s hand was back in
mine, feeling natural now as I stood with her before the counter where
the little
brew mistress in the frilly apron waited on us. Her name tag read: Mehitabel
and I immediately
wondered if archy was wandering underfoot somewhere.
“I’ll
have a summer peach tea with two spoonfuls of molasses
sugar please,” Sara murmured, and deliberately leaned on me
as I tried to look
up at the menu options on the board up behind the counter. Hundreds of
teas
seemed to be listed in every strength and color possible. I opened my
mouth,
and suddenly Sara leaned closer, whispering in my ear.
“
The
heat of her breath along my pinna, warming the shell of
my ear, the tingle of my neck and cheek all hit me in a sensual wave
and I
fought the urge to close my eyes. Confidently I spoke my order.
“One
cup of Jeedarling please.”
As
the brew mistress giggled, I resisted the urge to turn
and glare at the inspiration of my malapropism. Sara tried to look
demure, but
there was far too much delight in her small smirk.
“You
got flustered—interesting,” she teased. I wanted to
deny it, but the evidence was out, with a witness to boot. I gave a
small nod.
“I
got distracted.”
“It
was cute,” Sara murmured. “And that’s not
a word I get
to apply to you very often, Grissom. I like it when you’re
distractible. And
cute.”
If
there was ever a time to stay quiet, this was it; I’d
just been called cute and wanted to hold onto the moment. Fighting my
grin was
proving difficult, and Sara made it no easier by laughing softly. She
pointed
with her chin to a table close to the big picture window and I followed
her there,
settling into my seat after helping her into hers.
“You
are SO into the date manners,” came her murmur. I thought
about that as I sat down opposite her, not sure I knew what to say, but
she
took my hand again and lightly squeezed it. An audacious move for her,
and one
that instantly made me feel better. I managed a smile.
“Why
peach tea?” I asked, as much to break the ice as
anything.
Sara
gave a shrug of
her thin shoulders. “I used to drink it back in
“Bohemian,”
I murmured. A fitting description for Sara in
every sense of the word. She looked down at the table, and I realized
she felt
shy at that moment, so I drew in a breath. “I never had the
courage to be
bohemian. When I liked something off-beat, like Monarchs or haggis or
Edgar Rice
Burroughs, I had to keep it to myself.”
“Burroughs?
As in the creator of Tarzan?” she blinked, and I
gave a nod. The brew mistress came by at that moment, setting down the
two mugs
of tea in front of us along with napkins, spoons and tiny saucers. It
had been
a while since I had worked with tea, so I took my cues from Sara, who
deftly
pulled out the diffuser ball from her mug and rested it on her saucer.
For
a few moments we didn’t speak as we sugared and stirred
our drinks, enjoying the slow preparations together. Outside the
picture window
we had a nice view of a rock garden cunningly arranged with succulents
and
cacti. I could also see our faint reflections in the glass itself;
ghosts of
ourselves seated at the table. Still watching the images, I reached out
and
lightly touched Sara’s hand.
Deliberately
she let her fingers interweave with mine as our
arms rested on the tabletop, and this time I let my thumb stroke her
wrist,
brushing across the tendons under the thin skin there. Sara shivered.
“Okay,
THAT was a seductive move—“ she accused. I let
myself
smile at her slightly quavery tone.
“You
have delicate wrists,” I observed, looking down at
hers. The muted blue lines of her veins were visible, a lace of life
along her
arm. Sara shrugged, but kept her hand in mine.
“I’m
a woman, slighter of build than you are; not as strong
but potentially faster.”
“Capable
of longer endurance and able to withstand more
pain, according to the anthropologist Desmond Morris. But I
don’t think he
considered how appealing some of the innate delicacy of a woman is. I
look at
your wrists and wonder if kissing them would affect you.”
Sara
gave a little squeaking sound and fumbled for her tea
mug, hiding her grin behind it as she quickly sipped. I stroked her
wrist
again, feeling bolder now. “Too much?”
“No,”
she shook her head emphatically. “Good. Very . . .
sexy.”
Heat
hit my face at her compliment, and I looked down into
the depths of my tea to recover.
Seduction
is . . . exciting.
Sara
set her mug down and lifted her chin, looking, staring
at me directly. Her big brown eyes locked on mine even as her graceful
brows
drew together. “Not that I’m not enjoying all this,
and I don’t want to break
the spell here, but I HAVE to ask—why now, Grissom?”
The
answer rose in me from someplace deep and vulnerable; I
cleared my throat, feeling my pulse increase a little even as I
replied. “Sara
. . . back when I first asked you to come to Las Vegas, I
wasn’t ready for you;
for everything you were, and are—intense, dedicated, vibrant,
impulsive. All of
those qualities fascinated me then and now. But the man I was six years
ago was
. . . immature, emotionally. I had no idea of how to begin any sort of
relationship that wasn’t centered in my work or connected to
it somehow. And
when I realized how you felt about me, I panicked.”
Sara’s
lips trembled, and I rushed on, tightening my grip on
her suddenly cool fingers. “A lot happened in that
time—I became your boss
instead of your coworker; I nearly lost my hearing; I was stalked and
lost my
perspective on cases and had a lot of maturing to do. But when I saw
you begin
to fall apart it shook me out of my self-centeredness. I understood
that I was
a part of that; a cause of your unhappiness. And I realized
too—“ I paused.
Sara was still looking at me, and her eyes were bright now; too bright.
She
gave a tiny nod
encouraging me to go on, and I took a breath.
“—That you have always been my
constant. You are the one element in my life that comforts me.
I’ll never
figure you out, never understand why you stand by me the way you do,
Sara. And
I can’t make up for all the lost time and the
misunderstandings and general
grief we’ve gone through since I reached my realization, but
if you’re still
willing to give me a chance, I’m more than ready to . . .
“
“
. . . Seduce me?” Sara finished, blinking. That’s
when I
noticed the tear. Carefully I reached up and touched it as the drop
along the
smooth curve of her cheek, astonished at its heat. Sara fumbled with a
napkin,
chuckling weakly even as she mopped her face. “Sorry, umm, I
just wasn’t
expecting . . . . honesty.”
I
took the napkin from her and dabbed it along the curve of
her jaw line, feeling absurdly pleased and even a bit possessive. I had
permission to touch; to caress. I couldn’t speak yet; my own
throat was tight,
but I let my fingers linger across her damp cheek, and Sara seemed to
understand.
It’s
too soon to tell her, but I long to.
We
finished our tea together, not speaking much aloud.
Gently, slowly it seemed only natural to be touching now. Her foot
against mine
under the table; her fingers on the arm of my sleeve. Outside
the night grew darker and more lights
came on, making a glow in the sky. When we rose from the table, I noted
it was
with a mutual reluctance, and that felt good too—knowing that
Sara was as invested
in the evening as I was left me feeling warm inside. We headed back to
the car
and once more I helped Sara in. Once I was in the driver’s
seat, a strong sense
to loiter overtook me; when I risked a look over at Sara I saw the same
unwillingness to end the evening just yet.
She
grinned then, showing me her teeth and dimples as she
tugged her scarf along her throat. “We’re both
really bad at this, aren’t we?”
“I’ve
NEVER been good at this,” I admitted ruefully. “I
suppose I should take you home now.”
“You
could come in,” Sara murmured, not looking at me, and I
felt the rise of hope within my chest. I gave a little nod, and started
the
car. We drove, and with each mile closer to Sara’s apartment
I felt my
nervousness increase.
To
calm myself, I thought back to my initial hypothesis, and
. . . a surge of shame rose up in my throat, thick and dark when I
realized how
self-centered it seemed to me now.
I lied
to myself. This seduction was never about
Sara. It was about me. What I wanted.
This
epiphany hit hard, and I struggled with it through two
red lights. I didn’t dare look at the woman next to me as I
tried to resolve my
inner dilemma. We’d reached her building and I found a spot,
pulling in and
feeling new dread deep in my chest.
I have
to tell her.
I have
to tell her.
“Sara—“
I croaked, turning to face her now. She turned to
look at me, and in the shadows and light of the car I saw her
expression as her
eyes caught my face. So hopeful. So trusting. Sara reached out and
lightly slid
her fingers over the side of my face, just as she did so many years
ago,
brushing nonexistent chalk dust from my face.
She
leaned forward, and softly, I heard the huskiness of her
whisper. “You have no idea how it makes me feel to know you
want this too,
Grissom. I know tonight is supposed to be all about me, but
I’m SO glad you . .
. we--talked.”
My
crisis of conscience shivered within me and shattered.
We
walked to her door, not holding hands this time, but
still touching, moving in overlapping personal space in a quiet way
that felt
both new and comforting at the same time. Sara found her keys and
opened the
door to the unlit apartment, slipping inside and moving towards her
kitchen
with the confidence borne of familiarity. I took a few steps in, and
closed the
door behind me, plunging us once again into darkness.
I
heard Sara’s laugh float out towards me, a warm sound in
the shadows.
“The closest light
is the
lamp on the end table. Think you can find it?”
I
could. Swiftly pulling up the mental floor plan of Sara’s
apartment, I stepped forward and found the table within seven steps.
Gently I
groped my way up the lamp and tugged the little chain; immediately a
soft
golden glow flared out, pushing the shadows
back. Sara was within
arm’s reach,
standing with one shoulder turned to me; wary but close, watching me
even with
the stance of her body. I shifted, casting half of her in my shadow and
in the
image of her that way again struck me once more—half in
shadow, half in light.
For a moment we stood looking at each other.
She
spoke. “This,” came her soft words, “Is
where I sit with
you on my sofa, and we neck.”
ThankyouGod.
