A LITTLE SOMETHING AROUND THE MIDDLE

Part three

I glanced at Grissom, who seemed as inscrutable as ever as he drove. He had barely said anything, (except, 'I'll lend you a pair of old tennis shoes, Greg. Don't wear yours. The smells of the dead cling to shoes for months')

'Great,' I thought sarcastically, 'Now I'm gonna stink. Things are getting better and better.'

I glanced outside. We had left the city behind a half hour ago, and it seemed that the road to the Body Farm was one of the least traveled on. So far, only a couple of vans from the city morgue had passed us by.

Well, that was good. I wasn't looking forward to getting trapped in a traffic jam. Not after what happened a couple of days ago…

(Flashback)

We'd been returning from a crime scene at about eight in the morning, when we got trapped in a traffic jam.

It had been Grissom's fault.

"You should have taken 25th street." I said morosely.

"You should have told me." Grissom said calmly.

I made a visible effort not to remind him that 25th was the only route anyone in his right mind would have taken.

"We're gonna be late-" I said redundantly.

"Relax." Grissom said dismissively, "Our evidence isn't perishable."

"The evidence isn't what I'm concerned about."

He looked curiously at me.

"It's not?"

"No." I muttered, unwilling to say more.

"Did you have any plans?"

His question surprised me, but I didn't let on.

"Some of us like to go home now and then, Grissom." I said curtly.

I wasn't in the mood for small talk and he got the message. He looked away.

Well, good.

About fifteen minutes later, it wasn't so good anymore. The silence had become burdensome. I had a book open on my lap, but I needed other distractors. I glanced at Grissom.

"Do you mind if I put on the radio?" I asked.

"Sorry." He said, "It isn't working."

Ah, shit.

"Ok," I said, still trying to be patient, "Do you have any CDs around?"

"Sure," he said, "They're in the glove compartment."

There was quite a pile in there, but nothing that appealed to me.None of the songs contained in those CDs had beenwritten in this century.

"Verdi, Bach, Grieg-" I mumbled, "Very nice, if I wanted to fall asleep in the middle of the road-" Imumbled sarcastically. "Bizet –Carmen. Opera?" I snorted "Nope-ra."

I know, I know; I was being a jerk. But then I was pissed off, and rightly so. Grissom should have taken 25th; by taking 27th, he had practically taken the longest way back to the lab.

And the worst part was that he didn't seem to mind that we hadn't moved in fifteen minutes. Seeing him so calm just pissed me off more. Maybe he liked the sounds of a hundred claxons going on at the same time, but I did not. Maybe he wanted to spend the rest of the day staring at 'I love guns' bumper stickers and listen to me bitch about his CDs, but I just-'

I stopped that line of thought and took a deep breath.

Deep down, I knew it wasn't the traffic jam that was bothering me. If I was pissed off, it was because –after spending several days wondering about it- I'd started to suspect that Grissom had been acting so nicely lately because he felt sorry for me.

He was trying to let me down gently.

Shit. I'd never been the object of pity –not knowingly, at least- and I resented it like hell. I mean, come on! Did he believe I'd crumble if he said 'no' to me?

It was enough to make me want to take it all back. Yeah, that was an idea. Maybe I should just say, 'Hey, Grissom, remember what I said the other day about being attracted to a certain type of person? I was kidding! Oh, and that story about having a boyfriend? It was just a sick joke I was playing on you, ha, ha! Now could we pretend I didn't say anything?

I didn't say any of this. I opened my book again and tried to read, but after a moment I reluctantly glanced at him.

Grissom was staring at the ugly car in front of us -the one covered with the 'I love guns' stickers- and by the look on his face, anyone would have thought that he considered itto be the most beautiful car he'd ever seen.

It took me a while to realize that he was not really looking at the car but at something that was visible only to himself. He was meditating.

I shook my head. Nothing seemed to disturb this guy. Not me, not a traffic jam-

It made me wonder what someone like Robert –the skinny guy I'd recently dumped- would have done in this same situation…

I snorted. Robert would have been acting like a kid with a tantrum -punching on the claxon, insulting the other car drivers, and berating someone on the phone. He was always berating someone -his stockbroker, his secretary, or me.

Thinking of Robert suddenly reminded me of the things I loved about the guy sitting next to me, and suddenly, I wasn't so pissed off anymore.

Sure, I was disappointed, but I could handle that. I could handle anything -even a 'no'- but I couldn't handle the silence.

I cleared my throat.

"Did you know that some of Bach's scores were used as toilet paper during his lifetime?"

I know, I know; as a conciliatory gesture that phrase didn't seem adequate, but it did the trick: He blinked and turned to me.

"What?" he frowned.

I smiled and told him again.

"Really?" he asked.

Ha. I had him completely focused on me, now.

"Really." I nodded, "Paper was scarce at the time." I explained, "And his pieces were written for once-in-a-lifetime performances, so he probably wasn't keeping files. Besides," I added, "at the time he was more revered as a performer than as a composer. But a lot of his work was saved," I said quickly, in case Grissom worried about the pieces that were destroyed. "The guy was prolific," I said, "It would take years to copy down the pieces that survived."

Grissom was duly impressed.

"I thought you didn't like the classics." He said.

I was tempted to say I liked them, but I decided to be honest.

"Well, I don't. Not really." I admitted, "I mean, they're ok, but I wouldn't listen to a whole disc. They are great in some movies, though," I added, "I mean, A Space Odissey wouldn'tbe that great without 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra', right? And that song from Carmina Burana really adds something to the battle scenes in some epic movies-"

"But you learned all those facts about Bach," he argued, "Why?"

"Well… I read a lot and –as I've proved to you time after time- I absorb everything." I shrugged self-deprecatingly, trying to tone down my smugness (and failing), "I just like to know things," I said, "It's useful, you know; in case-"

"In case you want to impress someone." Grissom finished dryly.

"Well," I shrugged self-consciously, "Yeah."

"Greg," he paused, "Has it ever occurred to you that you don't need to try so hard to impress people?"

"I don't?"

"With that face? No."

Whaaaat?

I was stunned. I couldn't believe Grissom had just said that, and it looked like Grissom himself didn't believe it either. His ears and his nose had turned pink, and for a moment he didn't seem to know what to say or do. He looked down and started fiddling with the radio.

Yeah, the one that was broken.

The guy was flustered.

And I was still stunned.

"My face?" I asked. "You're serious?"

He did a little shrug but didn't answer.

The truth is, I've never thought that highly of my face, and it was shocking to hear him talk like that, as if my face was all that mattered about me. It seemed shallow of him, out of character-

And then... it suddenly occurred to me that I'd done just that, a week before. I'd talked about being attracted to him because of his body and his facial hair; and hell, I'd even put a limit to his weight-

Damn.

I looked at him; he was still fiddling with the radio dials.

I didn't know how to amend the things I'd said, but I didn't want to miss the chance to keep talking.

"My face, uh?" I asked, and then I lowered my voice. "So…does this mean I don't have to try to impress you, anymore?"

Grissom gulped. He opened his mouth several times but it took him a while to say something.

"I didn't say that." he said quietly.

And what did that mean?

Looking back, I think it was laughable, the way we sat there, incapable of saying anything else. We'd opened a window of opportunity and then we wasted it by acting like shy teenagers. I wanted to ask if this meant what I thought it meant, but -what if it didn't?

Maybe I was not ready to hear a 'no' from him, after all.

I settled for a safer topic.

"Did you know that Franz Liszt's fans used to ask for so many locks of his hair that he got a dog and sent them locks of dog hair to keep them happy?"

He smiled.

Time flew after that.

(Ends flashback)

TBC

Note:

The information on Bach and Liszt was taken from 'Mental Floss Presents Condensed Knowledge," pp. 178 and 184.

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