It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.
She supposed she must look like a mad woman to anyone who was watching, standing in the centre of her tiny living room screaming profanities at the wall. Not that anyone but the wall was watching, but still. Maybe a wall would be good company after all, they could talk about things like Bigs and Pugs and… and –
- What was that?
She cocked her head to one side, not noticing when the half-empty can of beer slid from her grasp, and moved towards the wall. She lowered her eyes to the photograph in a silver frame, suspended on a thin piece of wire. Scratched into the silver lay delicate hearts, scattered in the reflective material.
She leaned closer.
For a second there, she could have sworn she saw his face flicker. The sudden cold of the glass against her nose made her jump, and she steadied herself with a palm pressed flat on the wall.
Grissom's content expression didn't waver. She narrowed her eyes. That Bastard. The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She wanted to stamp out the light dancing in his gaze. She wanted to kick him and slap him and hold him close and kiss him and kiss him and kiss…
Finally, Sara broke her stare and staggered over to the couch. Her foot must have caught something, and she spun to see what it was, losing her bearing momentarily and falling sprawled on the disarray of plump cushions. She recoiled at the velvety texture. She didn't deserve its comfort.
That couch was far too comfortable, why had she bought it anyway? Briefly, she allowed a memory of fumbling limbs, tangled clothing, breathless whispers to flit across her mind, but the images were too painful. She scrambled off the couch to the floor, scratching at the gnarled wooden flooring to get away from the offending piece of furniture. It was her enemy.
She reached the other side of the room in relative safety, shooting furtive glances back at the couch every few seconds. She slumped forwards, suddenly exhausted. Like a cat curled up in front of the fire, she stretched and then spread out on her stomach, crossing her feet, tight, at the ankles. Her socks were loose, the left dangling precariously from her toes to drape lazily on the floor.
The rug was rough against her cheek, and she decided she liked its course texture. It reminded her of something… something her hazy mind couldn't quite name… but it was good. She sighed, and propped her head up with a weary arm. She liked the awkward position - the way her elbow creaked in displeasure, pressed into a gap in the floorboards.
Grissom had said that he liked her apartment; he had liked the striking colour scheme, saying it complemented her personality. He had often said the rug made the room feel loved and cosy, with its colours and unique weaving. She fingered a few loose strands with her free arm, pasting a ghost of a smile on her face before replacing her features into blank indifference once more. The effort felt too great.
He said he loved me.
Sara laughed bitterly, her head balanced upon too-thin arms until the tired limbs gave way completely, forcing her head to crash down on the hard, wooden floor. For some reason this made her laugh even more, huge hollow guffaws then suddenly she was sobbing.
Fat tears that wouldn't stop.