It's easy to sit near the glass walls and watch her all shift. She's been stuck in the lab all evening; she's getting antsy. I can see it in the way she moves; precise, succinct movements. She doesn't know the beauty of her work; she doesn't realize that she is beautiful. I catch myself staring at her often; I'm glad that she is so obsessed with her work that she doesn't even notice me. I'm not sure what I would say if she caught me staring; I probably could stammer some lame excuse about being lost in space, but she wouldn't believe that. She is way to smart to fall for those stupid lines. She is way to smart to fall for someone like me; I reasoned that if she was going to . . . well, we've worked together for a long time. Case closed.
Chartreuse. It's not generally the most flattering color; a cacophony of yellows, greens, and subtle brown tones. I think it would be ugly on anyone else, but her shirt hugs her body in all the right places. Its tailoring looks like it was meant for her body only; it clings to her breasts and skims the curve of her waist. It's a button-down dress shirt; something I never thought could be possibly sexy, but she makes it feminine. She doesn't believe that she could possibly be feminine. She hides her femininity well; she pretends to be just another one of the guys, but that is how the females in the lab have always survived. They work hard to be as tough as the guys; they tuck away their beauty until they walk through the crime lab doors in the morning. Once lay leave, lipstick can be put on and eyelashes can be coated in thick black mascara. That's all a woman really needs to be sexy; beautiful eyes and kissable lips. She doesn't realize that she doesn't even need that; she is beautiful all on her own.
She picks through the evidence without noticing that I am still staring. I wonder what stupid look I have plastered on my face; it's probably not the most flattering. I never seem to come off as handsome or debonair in these situations; girlfriends have always been few and far between. They've been scarcer since I met her; it's hard to wait on someone that doesn't even realize that you are waiting for them. I should tell her, but I don't think I could rally the right words. I think, at best, she might laugh at my inept proclamation of love; probably more lust than love. Lust is okay; lust gets you close enough to the person to figure out if you love her. I think I could love her; I've always thought that I could love her.
I shuffle my papers around so it looks like I am critically analyzing the post the Doc Robbins faxed me well over three hours ago. It took one hour to read the paper, but two hours to forget everything I had read. I had become entranced in how she moved; the way she pursed her lips when she became frustrated with what the evidence was telling her. She would wrinkle her forehead occasionally; she probably was trying to piece the crime scene together in her mind. Most CSIs needed to talk out the crime scene or bounce ideas off their colleagues; she did it all in her head. Signs of a consummate professional.
"Hey, did you want some coffee?" She asked. I hadn't realized that she was standing in front of me. I must have startled because she snickered at the reaction she got out of me.
"Sure," I replied. I searched for even the most inept way to tell her that she was beautiful, but my brain failed me.
"Where were you?" She asked as smiled. I loved her smile. She smiled so infrequently.
"I was just waiting," I replied. I wished I could have said something poetic or something as beautiful as the woman standing right in front of me. I had this feeling that I would always be waiting.