Chapter Eighteen
Really Short Random Thoughts
Disclaimer et al in Chapter One.
Prompts by Sillym3: surfboard, amphetamine, smoldering, velvet, and guru.
"Have you ever been to England?"
"Once for an entomological conference, but I ended up staying an extra week I became consumed by the Sherlock Holmes tour. You?"
"Summer abroad my junior year at Harvard. Do you want to go Great Britain for our honeymoon?"
"No, I'd rather go somewhere there's a bed, a beach and the only thing you'd need to wear away from either of those place would be a two piece bikini."
"So I'm thinking deserted island in the Pacific…"
"Sounds good."
"Somewhere I could ride my surfboard."
"Mmm, in the nude?"
"If you will too."
Henry walked down the hall of the crime lab with a piece of 8 x 11 ½ inch paper in his hand, looking for Sara Sidle. He found her in the break room drinking a hot cup of tea while thumbing through a magazine.
He sat down beside her and handed her the paper when she looked up at him.
"Your victim had very high levels of amphetamine in his system."
"Victims experience psychosis with large doses. Were they that high?" She looked at the report, then theorized, "He was having hallucinations, climbed the telephone pole, slipped, fell and died."
Black velvet paintings lined the walls of the house they were searching for evidence. Catherine found the artwork in bad taste, but couldn't say the work in itself was badly produced.
"Gil, there has to be a reason you want to go to San Francisco again, so soon after getting back from that conference."
"It's for the Powell case." He snapped another picture of the crime scene, trying to get Catherine's mind off of the subject.
"Does it also involve a beautiful woman, by chance?"
"I'll take the bodies, you can take the rest of the house," his voice dismissive.
Their legs were intertwined as Grissom lay on his side, one arm wrapping Sara tight against his body. His hand supported his head as he looked down into her eyes.
She wore a spaghetti strapped silk nightgown. The body wash she'd used earlier was jasmine, his favorite.
He looked down at her committing this moment to memory.
Their lips were hovering above the other's; their gazes smoldering in the low lit room.
She caressed his cheek while he stroked her thigh just below the hem of her gown.
When they finally kissed, they forgot the rest of the world existed.
In the garden.
And I turned to you and said,
"No guru, no method, no teacher."
Just you and I and nature
and the father in the garden.
He pulled her close in the garden of the jungle.
He wasn't there as her mentor; nor was there any reason for him to be there other than the fact that she was there. He knew when he'd come upon her, he'd found his missing self.
He kissed her while the monkey watched, her camera still in hand.
They were together; at long last.
If this wasn't true love, nothing was.
"In the Garden" by Van Morrison. No Guru, No Method, No Teacher, 1986.
To be continued…Reviews are appreciated.