Disclaimer: Haha, no.
His house smells like ammonia -- a lingering hint of the streak-free torture he inflicts upon every glass surface. Even the little pane in the door sparkles ominously when he turns on the porch light. It's immaculate. She knows it's mostly the OCD working on him, but when he starts cleaning there's very little that can stop him. The Captain said he was "tidy" before... She wonders what a tidy Adrian Monk is like, rather than a maniacal one.
She sighs, fingering the folded white linen that's resting in the pocket of her pajama pants -- a piece of his world clutched in her hand. She wonders how he's doing -- imagines him picking up the phone to call her with the cuff of his sleeve, reaching for something and suddenly realizing that he can't pick it up... She hopes he's okay. She knows he can get panicky -- hopefully he's managing...
He's fine, she tells herself, shaking concern from her thoughts. He's a wuss when you're there, but he's tough on his own.
She wants to be right and rings the doorbell.
The sound of his careful steps in the hallway grow closer, and he stands on tiptoe to peer at her through the window in the door -- frantic brown eyes barely visible over the protruding frame. Her heart readjusts its pace.
"Sharona?" he says, voice muffled. "Are you alone?"
"God," she replies, "who would I bring with me -- at 11:00 at night -- to give you your handkerchief? A news crew?"
Wrong choice of words: his eyes widen in horror.
"You -- Sharona, you didn't --"
She snorts. "No, Adrian, I didn't."
"Oh." he says, "Oh. Good."
It's silent for a moment, before the noise of the lock grating and turning brings her a view of her boss and his living room. He beckons her inside with a small nod and a shrug.
He smiles a little, looking flustered and embarrassed and slightly nauseous. Everything is looking especially sanitary -- she stops. It's cleaner, she thinks, wondering how on earth it's possible. Cleaner means panic, panic means he needed me faster...
"That... that was longer than five minutes," he says, trying very hard to make it sound like a humble acknowledgement. She knows that it isn't. She knows being late bugs him. She knows that she should have been there quicker. She knows she should have known...
"I'm sorry," she says, trying to make it sound as though she isn't.
He looks a little more flustered. "It's... it's okay, just try to be... you know... punctual. Please." He shrugs and looks around. "Can I have my handkerhief?"
"Oh, yeah." she says. "Sure."
She takes it out of her pocket and places it in his hand. It belongs there, firmly in place -- accentuating his smooth fingernails and tannish skin.
Where did that thought come from?
He clears his throat, nervously tucking the handkerchief into the front pocket of his shirt. His lips twitch into several different smiles, something she's always thought of as... well... kinda cute. She could watch him for a minute when he was in a good mood and he would smile at least fifty different times.
"I... I need to talk to you."
She pulls herself away from her thoughts and raises her eyebrows at him, which seems to have an interesting effect on his posture. He clears his throat.
"Okay, sure." she says, heading towards an uncomfortable armchair.
What about? she asks herself. What on earth could Adrian need to talk to me about? Thoughts of her son's opinions are at the back of her mind -- she's spent the evening trying to resist the urge to call Kyle's house and make him come home, trying to forget that her son thought she was in love with her boss. That her boss was in love with her...
He sits on the sofa, gazing at her. She wonders if he's finally lost it -- if he finds himself in some sort of dreamworld that he can't get out of...
"Spit it out," she prompts. It's not a soothing statement, but she can tell neither of them are in a particularly calm mood. She's worried, he's nervous. He explains, with a funny glint in his eyes, that he's looking for the right words. He's always looking for the right words: he's Adrian Monk, and everything he does has to be perfect.
She's getting edgy. She knows she should be patient, but it's late and she wants to go to bed, and she doesn't feel safe in his house. It's too clean... too sterile. It makes her feel as though people aren't supposed to actually live there.
"Look, Adrian, it doesn't have to come out poetry."
He swallows, looking as though he's choking on his tongue. He coughs. He sputters.
"IknowyouwerelyingaboutwhatwasinBenjy'snotebookandIwantyoutotellmewhatitisbecauseit'sdrivingmecrazy."
Oh, my God.
"What?" she says, hoping she sounds more incredulous than horrified. Really, it's the other way around but she can't tell him that. She can't just say "Oh, Adrian, Benjy just thinks we're in love. I didn't want to tell you because I knew it was ridiculous in the first place, and..."
And what? And Benjy's stupid to not remember Trudy? And Benjy's stupid to not remember that she works for Adrian? And Benjy doesn't understand that his mother and Mr. Monk are friends and coworkers, nothing more?
"Sharona... you're all pink."
"Oh," she says, placing a white hand to her face and feeling her hot cheek. "Oh... well, you know how kids are. He was just... you know..."
"No, I don't." he replies rationally.
"Oh..." she says. "Well, you see... Benjy's a writer... kinda... and he -- well, it's stupid, but he was writing down what might happen if you and I... He thinks you and I are... Uh... It's stupid."
"You said that." Another Humble Acknowledgement for Mr. Monk. His lips twitch into a smile, although he still sounds minorly annoyed.
"Yeah." she begins to sound frightened. Nervous... like him. "Yeah, I did... Ehm... Well, Benjy thinks that you and I should... 'get together'... It's stupid."
Absolute silence. She doesn't dare look at his face, terrified that he might be shocked or hyperventilating or... unconscious. There are no gasps, no signs of heavy breathing, no sound of a man Adrian's size falling to the floor.
He exhales, blinking at his assistant. "Oh." he says. "Oh... well, that..."
"Stupid, I know," she says, quickly standing up. "He's a weird kid."
"You should have a talk with him," he says, also rising from his seat to see her to the door. "about... about respecting his elders and... not assuming things."
"Yeah."
"Goodnight, Adrian," she says, stepping out into the darkness.
"Goodnight, Sharona," he replies with a nod. "Oh. Oh, by the way..."
She wants to leave -- to break out and run towards her station wagon with every bit of energy she has, but she takes a few steps back and looks at him. He seems to feel about as anxious as she does.
"Your hair looks nice," he says.