Even if his eyesight wasn't the 20/20 of his youth, Jim Brass rubbed his eyes, blinked, then squinted for a moment, before refocusing on the reason he had momentarily questioned the communication between his optic nerve and his brain.
There were no misfiring synapses: Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle were walking out of his townhouse, holding hands. Their bodies melted together into a kiss, before the two parted. Sara went to her Prius. Grissom to his company Denali.
Brass followed them both at a discrete distance to the crime lab, where they completely ignored the other.
Brass smiled.