This isn't right. He's not supposed to ignore it -- he's supposed to be brushing her away. He's Adrian Monk, he's afraid of touching people and other people touching him. Didn't Trudy write that poem about him hating to hold hands? Isn't that the last one she ever did for him? Isn't he supposed to stay that way?
She stares down at her right hand, heavily contrasted against his brown pants, and wonders how the hell he can't feel it when her muscles are tensing and hairs are standing up on the back of her neck. She wonders how long it will take for him to get that something is very, very wrong here. She's not supposed to want to kiss him.
He sighs. Her throat tightens considerably and, God, she wants to hit him so hard because he's there and he's not being himself and he's not in hysterics because of her hand. Not that she wants to deal with him when he's hysterical, but at least she'd have a distraction...
She needs a distraction. But because she doesn't have one, because she's too occupied with worry and nerves, she doesn't notice that he's clenching his fists -- a silent warning that he's getting very nervous. She does't notice, she's too busy wondering why this is happening to her and what she's supposed to do.
"So..." he says, and she jumps. "So... I guess it's kinda late."
"Yeah,"
Yeah, it's kinda late. She should probably be getting home, back to Benjy, to make sure he's okay. She should probably be on her way back to the big, warm bed that's waiting for her at home with the alarm clock on the night table and the cell phone right next to it. She can sleep until he calls her again... But she doesn't want to. She'd rather be here with him now.
This is bad.
"Sorry I called you over," he sounds hesitant and apologetic, "I just... you know... nevermind."
"Okay,"
They turn at the same time, facing each other the way they did before they almost... well... but, but farther apart. The mint breath is a faded bit of memory now, resting on the edge of her senses like it had on the edge of her lips. Her pulse is unnaturally fast, and she can't help but wonder what happened to the fearless Sharona of so many years ago. She'd be really useful right now.
"Well," she says, the word sticking in her mouth before she can force herself to get it out. "I'd better go."
She stands up this time, taking her rule-breaking hand with her and shuts the door before he can say "Goodnight." -- but after the porch light hits her face and the cool night breeze begins to blow her messy blonde curls around, she doesn't want anything more than to be back inside. She just stands in front of his door for a moment, staring at the gleaming atmosphere he works so hard to keep. Then she sighs, shakes her head, mentally slaps herself and heads towards the station wagon.
There's no way her son can be right about this.
She slams the car door once she's safely inside and turns on the radio as she peels out into the vacant street. KALT is playing one of her favorite songs, but she can barely enjoy it with all the stuff in her head. She's not supposed to want to kiss him...
When she gets home, she flops onto her bed and wraps herself up in every last inch of blanket, sheet or comforter. Maybe, she thinks, if she stays like this for the rest of her life she'll never want to put her hand on his knee again. But... but then she couldn't hand him wipes. He'd go insane, and then she'd have to work with him more, and then who knows what could happen.
No. Nothing could happen. After all, she's a professional. Adrian's as professional as they come, and he's so damned annoying that she's sure she'd throttle him before anything else. Even if she got past his weirdness and he got past... well, her, what kind of relationship would they have? He'd constantly be thinking of Trudy and she'd be ready to send him to her after a week.
She stares at the ceiling, chewing on the inside of her cheek for lack of gum. Yeah... But then she'd have to find a new job, and that would just be a waste of time and energy. Besides, she and Adrian are not going to get into a relationship. He's not her type. Really.
She keeps repeating that to herself and tries to ignore the fact that she wanted to kiss him fifteen minutes ago.