CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Word Count: 460
At times, lots of people never tell us what they are really thinking. Who is the one person that you would really like to know what they are thinking (as far as how they feel about you), and why?
It was one of those rare occasions. One of those really, really rare occasions. Ever since the coffee pot incident, they never seemed to run into each other in the break room anymore.
The Las Vegas lab seemed to hold its breath as Grissom sat down, unfolded his newspaper and scratched his beard. Such a simple set of actions was most definitely one of defiance, because, as he got settled and took a bite out of his red apple, Conrad Ecklie sat down on the opposite side of the table with a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Stirring some sugar into it, he shook the metal spoon dry and placed it on the table beside his meticulously prepared, and placed lunch. A sandwich on a plate, wholemeal bread, butter, beetroot, lettuce, shredded carrot and cold roast beef. Four celery sticks and four carrot sticks organised neatly in a plastic box, and a packet of salt and vinegar chips. Although he did not seem like the person to do it, Ecklie sometimes indulged in a bit of nostalgia, from, happier times.
Putting on a pair of glasses, the Dayshift Supervisor picked up an old book, the receipt for a bookmark sticking out of the top, and opened it up. As he read, he’d occasionally take a sip of coffee, and so the pages, of the book, and the newspaper, turned in silent conversation with one another. Working his way swiftly and efficiently through his lunch, as Grissom munched docilely, and slowly, on his apple, the man soon faced an empty plate and an empty plastic box. Putting the lid on top of the box and placing the box on the plate, he pushed it aside and placed down his book. Opening the packet of chips, he sat, as still as he could, eating them as quietly as he could, all the while peering indirectly at Grissom, who, probably, didn’t notice him because his face was hidden behind the newspaper still.
Then again, Grissom noticed everything, and he knew, he just knew, that even behind the newspaper, the other man was staring right back at him. The two men continued this silent stare festival until Ecklie was halfway through the packet of chips. Clearing his throat, the balding man looked up, and waited, until, finally, the other man put down his newspaper and looked up also.
He knew what he was going to, had to, say.
“No, you can’t have any, and, yes, I know she liked them.”
“That’s why you’re eating them? I thought you didn’t like salt and vinegar.”
“I don’t, particularly, but someone’s got to remember. You lot sure don’t.” Ecklie said, promptly getting up, picking up his things and walking out, swift and quick.
Screw what Grissom thought.