Disclaimer: If Sara and Grissom hadn't met in San Francisco back in 1999 CSI today might never have existed!
Author Notes: I've been playing around with this – I realised that a lot of what I thought I knew about pre-CSI was actually from the stories of others, and that the TV show has given a storyline in snippets since those were written, so I hope this all still makes sense. I also had the terrible epiphany whilst working out their ages at the time of this fic – I'm already older than Sara in this story! The Horror! I did a little research into the American Forensic Academy and according to their website their conferences were at University campus locations throughout the US and even in London, so I am setting this at Berkeley where we know Sara went.
All other research comes from DK guides to San Fran and Google Maps and Street map – I was able to 'stand' on the Golden Gate Bridge which I will admit freaked me out just a little!
Thank you to everyone who took a chance on reading something different from me!
Life Changing.
By Rianne.
Chapter Two.
She still hadn't noticed that he was already there.
She continued to waver on the spot, looking distracted, fidgeting with the strap on her purse. He could almost imagine what she was thinking, anxious thoughts about missing him by being slightly late, or that he was rude and even later than her, or the worst case scenario, that she had been stood up altogether.
He considered calling out to her, but didn't, knowing that the ebbing sounds of the street would wash away his words and draw the attention of strangers to their already nervous meeting.
What was his rehearsed opening line again? Too many thoughts seemed to have chased the words right from his brain.
Around him it was still vibrant and busy along Telegraph Avenue despite the advancing time of day.
The warm early evening Californian summer air enticing people out onto the streets.
Night classes at the University, and lectures still taking place at the Palaeontology museum had pedestrians passing as steady streams in both directions.
Sara's figure was silhouetted against a window of the cafe from earlier, and inside the atmosphere was still buzzing, crowded with people having after class cups and pre-all-nighter lighter fuel espressos. The newspaper crowd now replaced by groups engaged in stimulating conversations that rose and fell as the door opened and shut with the jingle of a bell.
Decibels spilled out into the street a few hundred yards away, tumbling from a brightly decorated independent music store, beside him the wares of a t-shirt stall flapped in the breeze, and on the corner across from him a young guy was playing an unfamiliar song accompanied by his staccato guitar, but he was ashamed to say that he couldn't have told you if it was a popular record or an original composition.
And not for the first time he wondered again what he was doing there.
He was here to have a nice evening, a meal and good conversation, that was the most favourable plan, although it seemed his companion for the evening was determined to look everywhere in the street, but across at him.
It was oddly amusing that she hadn't seen him waiting there. He must stand out like a sore thumb in this rapid, colourful place.
Hardly camouflaged in his crisp sturdy Chino's, dress shoes and sedate dark blue polo shirt. His motionless sentry fluidly encircled by experimenting undergrads with a spectrum of hair and clothing in every style, cut and colour.
He wondered if his expression gave away his feeling more than little lost in the face of the youth surrounding him and to make allowances he worked to govern his features into something resembling a relaxed smile.
This entire city a place of laid back ease, permeated with intelligence, free spirit and experience.
He took a slow breath and tried to keep that ethos in mind.
But honestly he couldn't have shouted boring Professor any louder if he still wore his lecture nametag and carried a portable lectern, or if he had one of the street sellers graffiti 'Doctor, that's spelt PHD', on a T-shirt for him.
But these were the only clothes he had brought with him.
A sojourn into the world outside academia hadn't even crossed his mind as he had hurriedly packed for the trip.
These clothes, more formal than he usually wore on days off work, were just right for the faculty meetings or an airport bar lounge, yet just so wrong here.
But at least his little amount of effort, clean shaven face and change of clothes, was more in keeping with the effort she had made.
Her hair was loose, lifting in the breeze.
Her light dress fluttering against her thighs.
Her feet clad in delicate sandals.
He checked his watch again.
And now he was late, the big hand had just ticked past seven o'clock.
He didn't like to be late.
Waiting just made all involved nervous.
Huffing out a preparative breath his feet took charge.
He stepped around the line of parked cars.
Eyes travelling down the one way street, to make sure it was free from oncoming traffic before he crossed towards her, attention now solely focused on her lightly swaying figure.
Smile ready he switched on the charm.
"Sara!"
Her gaze rushed up from the sidewalk, taken by surprise by his abrupt arrival, and so her response was ungoverned too.
Her smile unrestrained, rising until her eyes glimmered with it, and all he was going to say was suddenly gone.
"Hi!" She sounded relieved, "I thought I'd missed you. I'm so sorry I'm late! This afternoon got away from me, and I..."
He held his hands up to slow her, smile widening. She was fluttering again.
There was just something so very lovely about her.
And once more the sight of her was accompanied by a lightness in his chest, something which had risen up at seeing her again this evening.
He felt giddy which was an almost unnatural feeling for him.
He felt happy and refreshed.
"Don't worry about it, I was on the last minute too," he soothed, cutting into her fluster.
A little white lie, but she didn't need to know that he had practically grown roots watching her from afar.
Her face dipped again and she concentrated on her toes, moving them in her sandals.
He'd embarrassed her, not a good start.
He wasn't sure what made her so fluttery around him, or even if he was the cause of her nervousness, but she seemed unable to stop talking around him, and he wondered a moment if she was like this all the time. Careering about at this high speed.
She was so alive, always in constant fluid motion; and he was unprepared for the pang he felt at that realisation.
She wouldn't want to be held down by someone as rigid as he.
He wasn't supposed to be thinking about things like that.
He was not allowed too.
"We're here now," he threw out with a shrug, trying motion to get her to look at him again, and it worked.
Her face lifted and she nodded, looking oddly thankful and one hundred percent aware of her over talking.
She was blushing.
A small awkward smile appeared to grace her features.
She was waiting for him to say something, and when he didn't she resettled her bag on her shoulder, slim fingers curling nervously around the strap.
There was a moment of tension filled silence.
Should he tell her she looked nice?
He was trying hard to stop his eyes darting about her face, noticing that she looked more than nice; in fact she looked very pretty, especially with her loose hair curled naturally like that.
But it was probably wholly inappropriate; this wasn't a date after all, merely a meeting between student and professor.
See, little white lies all round tonight!
But before he could break through the tension and embarrass himself further by revealing his prattling thoughts, several people came tumbling out of the coffee shop, accompanied by a trill of the little bell above the door and a heated sounding argument about the ethical dilemmas of something he couldn't catch, causing him to take an instinctive step closer to her to create space for them to pass.
Her soft hair smelt of sweet jasmine.
Her shoulder brushed his chest.
He felt the breath she took.
And then the sidewalk was all theirs again and he took a reluctant step back, whispering, "Sorry."
She tilted her face up to his and threw him a quick shy sideways smile.
"So," she cleared her throat, "did you have an idea about where you'd like to eat?"
He had spent a full fifteen minutes intensely questioning the hotel concierge about places to go so that he could have place names on hand, but as she had been the one to invite him he thought it only right that she should have the final say if she had ideas.
"I'm open to suggestion?"
She smirked at that, squinting her eyes.
"Alright, I know a place with good Sushi?"
"Sounds good, lead the way."
He gallantly let her step ahead of him and start along the road.
And the change in location seemed to clear the air.
She was talking rapidly again, and all he could think was that it was nice to just walk beside her, even if he had to lengthen his gait in attempt to keep pace with her forward strides.
And listening to her speak, he simply marvelled at how she always seemed so enthusiastic whatever her topic.
The restaurant wasn't far, she took a left at the next junction and they were there.
"It doesn't look much of a place, but the food is good and there's garden seating. It should be pretty quiet on a weeknight too."
And she was right, the place was a good choice, they were lead to a small secluded table at the back of the garden, nothing too fancy, nothing too romantic, it took the pressure off.
He didn't even have to pull out her seat for her; before he could consider it she was already seated, and looking at the menu.
So he slid into his own place, across the table from her, and took up his own menu.
"So, what's good?"
Instead of speaking she reached out and flattened his menu between them on the table, and even though the writing was upside down to her she distractedly tapped at a couple of the dishes with a slim well manicured finger, before letting it spring back up to him, continuing with her own decision.
He raised a brow, unseen by her and wondered at her easy informality, curiously considering if she was using it to disguise the fact that she didn't want to look foolish by getting the verbalization of the dish names wrong.
Yet, when the waiter reappeared her Japanese pronunciation was perfect.
He should have expected no less.
Still feeling slightly uncomfortable and overly aware of himself he watched the waiter's expression with interest.
But the young man didn't bat an eyelid when he took their order.
He didn't examine the pair of them, or question what they were doing there together.
He was calm and quick and vanished in a matter of moments, unconcerned by the strange man with the tense demeanour and the young woman who was restlessly rearranging the items on the table until she found their perfect alignment.
To the world at large they were just two people. Eating in a restaurant, ordinary, normal, simple.
Other people didn't see her as young. Or even consider him as old.
And they just did not care what they were doing together.
It was just his own issue, clearly.
He took a long sip of his cold beer, gaze stroking over her animated face as she read the label on her own bottle.
It was a strange moment of out of body contemplation for him.
To him this night was such a change in pace, such a step outside his routine.
A huge deal.
And yet to others it was nothing.
It shouldn't bother him so much.
He should just let it go for one night.
But it still ticked there at the back of his brain.
And the one thing which bothered him the most was that he just couldn't place her actual age, and that really bugged him, made him afraid that in the face of his own ever advancing years he was beginning to loose the clarity he had possessed in his youth to gauge a woman's age correctly.
Her intellect, her voice, the way she spoke seemed to be in complete contrast to the sweetness in her manner, her nervous blushing, her shyness.
"So, how did you find this place?" He asked, coaxing her to look up from her menu.
"We used to come here for takeout when we had survived Professor Stevenson's 6pm class on particle fusion," she rolled her eyes. "The Nigiri mix was the perfect reward,"
"You don't come anymore?"
"Not as often," she looked wistful, "most of my friends moved on after we graduated. For a while a Graduate Degree was actually worth something in the job market."
She had a Graduate Degree?
He had not expected that.
He took a moment to swallow his beer.
He tried to keep his face neutral, but she noticed immediately.
"What? You thought I was still a student?"
She knew the answer to that, it was written across her face.
Crap, he had offended her.
And of course she wasn't the kind of woman to take his surprise as a compliment on her youthfulness.
He panicked, and he could feel the heat flush his cheeks.
His PhD always failed him in moments like this.
He should have studied human interactions and conversation patterns and not bugs.
He didn't know what to say to fix this.
But before he could fumble a reply, or carefully apologise, he was interrupted by their waiter arriving with two steaming bowls of Miso soup.
At least the disruption gave him a moment to word his many questions.
But as soon as the young man had turned his back, she had commandeered the conversation.
And as glad as he was for the topic shift he had barely been able to breathe in a waft of the food, before her question about insect timelines had derailed his thoughts completely.
Forensics, the one topic he could talk about with confidence.
He tried to keep his exposition clear, not simplifying anything, as she obviously did not need such a consideration, but explaining it in a way that he hoped made sense to an outsider to the Entomology world.
And her questions came again and again; right now her interest was focused back on his first lecture, "Double Murder in a Garage."
His original title had been wittier, but the humourless faculty secretary had frowned at his suggestion and he had quickly given the bland replacement.
Her mind continued to amaze him, her overflowing curiosity, she was always thinking, expanding on earlier thoughts, asking about things that she had touched on briefly at their earlier meeting in the coffee shop, but she had clearly taken his past answers away with her and had formulated yet further queries.
Wanting to know what positions he had found the bodies in, what state of decomposition, how the discovery of the beetles had caused him to re-evaluate the entire scenario, leading them away from their theory of murder/suicide to the actual killer.
She was watching him so intently, her chin propped on her palm, her elbow on the table.
Dark eyes fixated. Almost too eager to hear all the gory details.
It was extremely flattering to have such unadulterated attention from someone else.
He was so engrossed in his story that he had forgotten to eat his soup and it was nearly cold before he had taken his first spoonful, but she was right, it was good.
There was a small spell of silence as he ate, and when he looked up at her again she was biting her lip, mirth glinting in her eyes.
"What?" he wiped his mouth with his fingertips, but she wasn't laughing about his eating habits.
She was looking behind him, eyes darting from him to whatever amused her so, silently encouraging him to look too.
He crinkled his eyes in query, but again she subtly insisted he look behind him.
So keeping his eye on her until the very last moment, he discretely turned his head to look.
Across the garden their waiter was trapped, the unfortunate recipient of a heated berating from the couple who had been seated at the table behind theirs.
A very revolted looking older couple who were glaring daggers at he and Sara.
Obviously not as enthralled about overhearing their less than suitable dinner conversation.
He cleared his throat, to hide his own amusement, turning back to his dinner companion, eyes wide and laughter rippling just below the surface.
The glee in her eyes was wonderful to see.
She was biting her lip.
Her breaths quick and through her nose, as opening her mouth to let in air would allow the mirth to erupt.
Restraining the amusement ebbing through her was making her muscles quiver.
She looked like she was vibrating, and that set him off too. He had to flatten his palms against the table and take a deep breath as he listened to the woman behind him call him a 'very disturbed young man.'
He let his mouth twist into a grimace as he mouthed 'very disturbed' at Sara, nodding like a disgruntled psychiatrist and watched as a single tear of laughter made a break for it, escaping down the soft curve her cheek.
She discretely used the back of her thumb to chase it away.
And they shared a wonderful moment of snickering, unified amusement and clear understanding.
Infuriated the couple noisily left, leaving the restaurant staff to brush off their remarks and return to work.
He made a mental note to leave their waiter an impressive apology tip.
Poor guy, but for the opportunity to share the last few moments with Sara he would eagerly freak out everyone over the age of 60 in a hundred mile radius.
"That's quite a talent we have," She looked at him, calmer now able to relax and breathe normally again but her smirk remained. "We'd be a dieter's best friend; we could clear a restaurant in twenty minutes or less, put a place like this out of business!"
He couldn't imagine that there were many women out there in the world who would find this conversation not only interesting but amusing too.
It was an extremely unusual combination, most people viewed him the very same way that the infuriated couple had done.
Although with that in mind, that put Sara into the strange category, and really, her intense interest was rather odd.
The rest of her behaviour seemed pretty normal, she had no crazy tweaks, and he was trained to look for those things.
She certainly didn't fit the bill of a serial killer, so it was puzzling how intrigued she was by the details of one.
It didn't seem like she was only talking about his lecture because she was grasping for conversation topics.
Time to bring out the big questions.
"So, if you studied physics, may I ask why you are taking my lecture?"
She tilted a brow at him, making him wait whilst she swallowed a spoonful of soup.
"You aren't taking notes on how to be a serial killer are you?"
The soup nearly came out of her nose, and his eyes grew wide as she spluttered.
Trying his best to look apologetic, and not to laugh, he occupied himself by offering her a napkin.
"You should know that the incidence of female serial killers is extremely rare," She retorted when all her faculties returned. "As a gender we're actually bigger fans of poisoning, quieter than full blooded violence."
He had to smile at that, she even had a quick comeback when there was soup in unfortunate places.
And thinking about it, his gaze dropped to his nearly empty bowl, considering the ease with which she could have poisoned it.
She suggested the place, could be in league with the waiters and kitchen staff, and could have paid the couple to cause a disruption so she could slip him something!
Man, that would be the best student prank for a while, poisoning the professor, she'd be famous!
His thoughts must have been clear in his expression.
"I'm not a serial killer!" Her words rushed out on a girlish laugh.
She paused again, keeping him in the beam of her stare and he wondered if she was taunting him on purpose.
Probably to get him back for the soup spluttering question.
She was studied him, and she didn't even bother to hold back her grin of delight, evidently enjoying that he couldn't puzzle her out.
And he had to wonder how she saw him, what she thought of him, of this evening and their burgeoning... friendship?
But eventually she took pity on him, "I'm here for the Continuing Education programme. I'm a CSI in the San Francisco Lab."
Her voice trailed off as she took in what he knew must be a stunned expression.
"I thought you knew that?"
Clearly he did not.
His mind felt blank.
Before a chaos of thoughts broke free.
It explained so much, especially the level of interest she had in what he was teaching.
She was a trained expert.
He wasn't handling this well.
He was still opening and closing his mouth gormlessly.
She had singlehandedly knocked him right out of the park.
Again.
He was reeling.
Kicking himself on the inside.
With one sentence everything had changed.
She was a CSI too.
And instantly the playing field was levelled.
No wonder she was so smart, so confident in her intelligence.
He had done it again.
He had assumed without gathering all the evidence first.
And to think that he had actually momentarily considered if she was old enough to drink.
He was beginning to wonder if he would ever completely work her out.
This wonderful creature before him kept metamorphosing with every revelation.
She threw his radar off with every movement and all he could do was keep piecing all the fragments together and ask as many questions as she did.
So he picked out one of the many he had at random.
"So did you do your undergraduate degree here too?"
He could easily imagine her at Berkeley, protesting on the streets, alive and empowered with the Power to the People, forcefully debating the merits of animal rights, the necessity of preserving the trees, her spirit would have fit right in with the hippy vibe of the place. Berzerkely they had called it in his years as a student, echoing back to the 60's and all the tear gas protests which had lined the very streets they ate on right now.
There was something in the way she held herself, the curve of her spine and the lazy sway of her walk, soothing and relaxing, both a complete contrast to the sharp intelligence with which she spoke.
She would be a formidable and deceptive opponent in any argument that she sought to win.
Yet, something about his question gave her pause, and he wondered why his query had made her uncomfortable, her behaviour only made him even more curious.
"No," she bit her lip reluctantly.
He took another sip of chilled beer, which made his teeth ache after the heat of the soup.
"Harvard," she added quietly, as if it was nothing, picking up her own drink to avoid looking at him.
Harvard.
Damn.
Well that put him in the shade. His PHD in Biology was from UCLA, a good school, but it was no Harvard.
And she knew his credentials; they were clearly typed on the promotional materials handed to all students who took his class.
Harvard.
He tried not to let on how impressed he was, and could tell by her embarrassed eye roll that she didn't believe his indifference for a moment.
She shrugged, creasing up her forehead, still making light.
"I graduated high school early, went to college on an academic scholarship the month I turned seventeen."
A Harvard scholarship on early acceptance no less.
Her soup was suddenly very intriguing to her, and he found himself adding, extremely modest to his list of garnered knowledge of Sara Sidle.
She spiralled her spoon in cyclical patterns through her nearly empty soup bowl.
He watched the way her slender wrist moved as she stirred. A gentle but restless soul.
She looked up from her bowl, and her lips pursed as she studied him a moment.
"I'm twenty-six now. Will that get rid of the crease between your eyebrows?"
Before he could wonder what she was doing she had reached out and pressed against his forehead, her gentle fingertip making contact with his skin for a mere split second, but the indent vanished instantly.
And his heart did a funny flip inside his chest.
She was touching him.
His hand distractedly replaced her touch, before he could stop himself, as if he meant to hide the evidence, mouth falling open at her wonderful direct way of speaking and the free way she touched him.
She bit her lip so as not to laugh, "I didn't want you to get permanent wrinkles from frowning so hard."
Right on the money with a horribly accurate aim.
She knew exactly what he was thinking.
He dipped his head in mock shame, admitting defeat.
They were flirting.
They weren't supposed to be flirting.
She wasn't supposed to read his mind the way she uncannily could either.
Yet, something had clicked inside him at the knowledge that she wasn't what he thought.
The evidence had changed and so must all this theories.
She was a CSI.
This shouldn't change everything, but it did.
She couldn't know that. She couldn't know that he had almost chickened out of coming tonight because of his multitude of insecurities and misguided standards.
He needed to keep talking, keep the evening moving.
Pretend you knew all along.
Say something. She revealed, reveal about yourself!
"I went to college early too!" he heard himself blurt. His voice just an edge too loud, causing her gaze to jerk up to meet his.
"Started advanced classes at sixteen and got my PHD at twenty-two." He carried on in a meeker tone, trying to explain away his outburst. But it came out wrong.
Great, now he sounded like he was showing off, when she had talked of her achievements with such modesty.
He had just wanted to let her know that they were similar, pleased to find something else in common between them.
But she simply nodded in response, calm and accepting.
"How long have you worked for the San Francisco crime lab?" He was still trying to get the numbers straight in his head.
"Nearly four years," she replied, looking past him as their waiter arrived with two large plates of sushi and California rolls. "I'm a CSI Level 2."
He made space for the delivery on the table.
She was a CSI level 2, only one level below him, and undoubtedly would catch him up in a matter of months.
"So you worked with Dr. Taylor? He was the Coroner there until '96?"
"Dr Drew! Yes, he retired my second year. A good man."
She sounded pleased to learn they had a mutual acquaintance.
"Interesting sense of humour, though."
Oh, that he had to agree with, hiding in a morgue draw to scare new students had straddled the fine line between amusing and deranged.
And then it was so very clear, and out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"He got you with the morgue draw joke!"
He sounded way too gleeful, and she looked like she wanted to snap off the finger he had pointed at her, so he lowered it before she had the chance.
Her brows furrowed, and her glimmering eyes and generous mouth widened in mock offense, and then she pouted, wrinkling her nose.
His grin was broad, "Ahh, well he got the best of us!"
She did laugh then, "No way! He did not get you too?"
He tilted his head in admittance, shrugging his shoulders.
Oddly pleased that they had something as obscure as that in common too.
He sampled his first roll, finding it as good as she had claimed.
"So," she kept the conversation flowing effortlessly, "Why Entomology?"
Well, that was a question he could answer, words rose up and he became the one that couldn't stop talking all of a sudden.
He told her of his childhood fascination with how things worked, wistfully remembering all the times he had curiously chased bugs and beetles around his back yard.
And one story lead to another, and her interest remained unfailing, encouraging him with smiles and small responses, and eventually he was able to recount a wonderfully funny story about his tarantula Stevie getting loose in the Lab, and resurfacing at the most inopportune moment, right when the Sherriff had been reaming him about a case, making the Sherriff in question scream like a girl, and he had made her laugh, that delightful chuckle filling the garden.
Ripples of delight floating in the air around them.
She was so beautiful.
When she laughed he felt it.
'It.'
Some yet unnameable feeling.
And he could think of nothing better than making her laugh as often as he could.
And the awkwardness faded into the background as they relaxed, night finally falling around them.
The trees along the street blossoming with tiny glimmering lights.
He threw the conversation back her way, conscious that he didn't want to spend all night talking about himself.
If in doubt rely on the good old cliché's.
"So, Sara, what do you do for fun?"
She considered his creditability for a few moments, sizing him up, before pointing towards him with her empty chopstick.
"I like eating out," she still eyed him warily as if this was a trick question, or one asking her to reveal too much of herself. "I like music, and books, I love books. And I really enjoy good conversation."
He smirked back at her, appreciating her natural wariness.
Riffing, "And this is nothing like good conversation," making her laugh again and shake her head at him tenderly.
They had such an easy rhythm when they got going.
"And what about you, what do you like?" she volleyed back.
He wiped his mouth on a napkin, gave himself a moment to decide. "I like catching Lepidoptera," he admitted, watching her smile at the mention of butterflies, she was probably imagining him rushing around like a mad man waving a huge butterfly net, "and I appreciate film noir."
"I like my job," she admitted.
And that he understood, "I love my job."
"And you seem to love lecturing too."
It was a comment not a question.
"Well it's a nice break, gives me chance to refresh my mind."
She pulled that smirk again, the one that was closer to a pout than smug and he found himself admitting that yes, he loved lecturing.
"It's selfish to keep knowledge to yourself. Wasteful." He joked. "Especially when you have good students."
He almost winked at her, but he restrained it at the last moment, and she actually pretended that she didn't know he was complimenting her.
"And you can always learn something," she added with a more serious lilt to her voice.
"So what did you learn from me?"
He was flirting again, smiling at her across the table, the warmth of the beer and good food buoying his stomach, he snuck the penultimate California Roll, nudging the last towards her with a smile.
And she began reeling him off, his own words from today's lecture tumbling breathlessly from her, echoing him right down to the phraseology.
And his mouth fell open.
Roll crumbling back into a pile of rice on his plate as he momentarily forgot he had it caught between his chopsticks.
Eidetic memory.
What did she do, tape everything he said?
And she was smiling again, teasing him.
"Does that make me your Star Pupil?"
Cheeky, he liked that too.
"Well, it awards you the last roll."
She nodded triumphant, and giddily proud of herself.
"Alright, so when you aren't working you like books, reading anything good?"
And that was the best question he had asked all night, she was not only a speed talker, but also a speed multi reader, juggling several books at once, and more than eager to tell him all about them.
And the conversation drifted pleasantly for a while, debating the merits of books they both enjoyed as they finished their food and drink and eventually came to the natural end of the meal and they ran out of excuses to remain.
He signalled the waiter for the check.
Insisting on paying, despite her offer, and he did leave an excellent tip, sliding it to the waiter when she hadexcused herself to the bathroom.
They reunited by the entrance to the restaurant, and spent a moment hovering side by side, quietly reluctant to part and conclude their time together, and in the end they began to amble along the main street, glancing into windows.
Putting off the inevitable.
"Do you have anywhere to be?"
He asked, as he wondered for the first time if there was anyone waiting for her at home, a boyfriend, roommate?
Hoping to learn that she didn't.
"No," she broke into a tempting smile, "but I've an idea of somewhere we could go if you have the time?"
Oh, he had the time.