Hey everyone, I was at work the other day and since work generally makes me angry and I was thinking of CSI while angry, well, you can see what happened. The sentence structure, grammar, punctuation, and the use of the word "that" are all incorrect, but that's intentional. Our thoughts are not generally essay-quality, so neither are hers.
Title: Anonymous Girl
Spoilers: None
Rating: PG-13 for uncomfortable sexual situations
Disclaimer: CSI is the property of someone else. I'm sorry, but if you sue me, you get nothing but underwear with holes in it.
Summary: Sara is driven to make the wrong decision.
Note: The speaker is Sara; the absent man is, of course, Grissom.
Every time I think of him.
It's not like I set out looking for someone that reminds me, and I'm not trying to forget, either. It just happens—just like it's happening now.
"Hi," the man says. I've never seen him before.
"Hi yourself," I reply. I can use the same response every night, because they've never heard it from me before.
"Can I buy you a drink?"
I nod and let him take me to a booth in the back. I like this place for that. I think he'd like it, too, if I ever brought him here.
But we've never been out, not like that.
So the anonymous man and I make useless, shallow talk as I begin the usual rituals. Trailing my finger around the rim of my glass, twirling my hair with my finger. Discovery Channel should do a special on this; call it "Mating rituals of the Las Vegas female." Licking my lips to bring it to the next level.
At the lab he licks his lips in concentration, like when he's thinking, formulating a hypothesis. I don't even think he knows he does it.
I have to stop zoning out like that. Of course, Mr. Anonymous is still talking about himself, so I didn't miss much. I don't even want to talk about myself, here like this, where people forget themselves. I like this place for that. I think he'd like it, too.
Now the bar guy is asking about me. I tell him I'm an interior designer from Oregon. He asks if I'm driven mad by the gaudiness of this city. I guess I never thought about it that way before, which makes me just about the least convincing interior designer ever. Maybe tomorrow I'll be an engineer again.
He says he only lives a few blocks away and was wondering if I liked coffee. I like coffee, but I don't like this. Still, I can't stop myself as I tell him that "coffee" has probably lead to more nights of passion than all the roses in the world. He just grins at me, toothy and perfect and all too cold, before we walk out.
He drives me there, which is never a good idea, but neither is any of this. Any of it at all. I follow him in anyway and as he closes the door behind him, I get a sudden feeling that I don't belong here. He dips his head to my neck and starts to undo the buttons on my shirt. I go straight for his fly, like I'm drowning and need something physical to tether me to the shore. Harshly he grabs at my breasts and I can't make myself like it, no matter how much I need someone close. No matter how much I need him. Gil Grissom.
There are two things I wanted tonight: a friend and a lover. I chose the wrong one.
I look at Bar Guy and he must have seen something on my face that startled him. How about horror, for starters? So, without thinking, I grab my shirt and run—run out of his house and down the street, dressing on the way and ignoring his shouts behind me.
I finally reach the parking lot back at the bar. I'm about to get into my car when I realize that I've done up the buttons incorrectly on my shirt. I start undoing and redoing buttons in view of the patrons just outside the door. They don't care. I like this place for that, but somehow I don't think he would.
My tires squeal as I floor it out of there.
It's almost morning and the sky is beginning to lighten and I hope that he isn't sleeping yet, but I can't turn back now. I knock.
I can hear him accidentally kick something on the way to answer and I have to fight back the urge to run. Then the door opens and it's too late.
"Sara."
He looks like he's both confused and trying to hold something back at the same time. I think it's a smile.
"What are you doing here?"
It's hard to explain and I stutter the answer a bit as it comes out, but I say that I just needed to be here right now. Then I begin to cry. I try not to and then I try to stop, but he puts his hands on my arms and pulls me close and I can't do anything but just bury my face in his chest and let it all out. I hope he understands.
When he gently guides me inside and closes the door, I know I am home.