She sat down in her chair and he gently scooted her chair inward, when someone walked by. The presence had wafted the sweet smell of her hair into his nostrils, and chills reverberated through his body. He moved back to his chair, and seated himself looking down at the table. He needed a moment before he could look up and into her eyes, so he opened his napkin in his lap, and placed his silverware on either side of his placemat before finally looking up. She seemed to be in slow motion talking with the other residents of the table, smiling and nodding in agreement. They all chatted for a while, going through the motions of the fake conversations. Fact is, no one really ever cared how you were doing or what you were going to school for; they had all heard it a thousand times over. Gil stood when Sara got up from the table, and excused herself. Before turning to leave, she stopped and picked up something at the same time that he spotted it and tried to grab for it.

"Oh. I think you dropped your napkin, Mr. Grissom."

He rose up meeting her face to face. "Thank you, Sara… but you can call me Gil."

She smiled a crooked smile. "Okay, Gil." She handed to the napkin to him, smiled one last time at their party, and turned to leave.

He sat back in his chair, and looked down at the napkin, about to toss it away.

"Room 403.
Campton Place."

Gil looked up from the napkin as he casually slipped it into his pocket. His mind was going berserk at the thought of what to do. He should go, definitely, he told himself. He decided that is what he was going to do, and gave himself 15 minutes between her departure before he excused himself.

"Well folks, it was good talking with you. I'll see you all at the next get together," as he smirked, "and some of you in class. Enjoy your night." He stepped behind his chair, and pushed it in as the group at his table bid him goodnight.

He left the campus, practically with a dash, as he jumped in his car, and speed down the road. His heart quickened as he stomped on the accelerator; sweat pouring down from his temples. "What am I doing?" he wondered, still speeding along. He fumbled with a tourist map at a stop-light, spotting the Campton Place on the map just before the light turned green. He threw the map aside, and accelerated through traffic.

Nearing the hotel, it became harder for him to swallow. He used the sleeves of his dress coat to wipe away at the sweat on his face. He found a parking spot, and turned off the car. He sat in silence, in the dark with his hands fiercely gripping the steering wheel. He relaxed and pulled the napkin out of his jacket pocket. Staring at it for a moment, he tried to blink, but the words were still there.

"Room 403.
Campton Place."

He thought, for a moment, until there was nothing else to think about, and then he stepped out of the car, and into the hotel. He clinched his jaw as he walked through the lobby. It felt as though the clerk was staring straight into him, and knew what was about to happen. Sweat dripped from his brow, and he wiped ineffectively at it as he stepped into the elevator. He gave a glance and a nod to the clerk, and the doors closed.