He doesn't respond, allowing his head to dangle in that fearful way. I decide to get behind him, in the tub, and pull his upper body back up.

As I reach around his waist to get a good grip, he jerks his head up, catching me off guard, and I begin to slip. I know that I am going to fall really hard and crack my head off of the rim of the tub and probably bleed to death, but I also happen to notice the detective springing to his feet.

Even though my eyes are closed and my hands are waving futilely to grab onto something, I can tell I'm going to hit soon. I can see the end now: I either get brain damage from hitting my head, become a quadriplegic from breaking my spine, or die right away from cracking apart my brainstem. It'll be an open casket funeral, but there will be tons of pillows, creepy but soft death pillows, all around my mangled skull, and Julie will probably…. Oh, God, I don't even want to imagine….

Instead of the sharp jolt of pain and the inevitable blackness of unconsciousness I am expecting, I am caught by a pair of strong arms. There's absolutely no pain to the sudden stop of my fall; the rescuer has expertly been able to avoid having any part of my back, neck, or head hit the hard ceramic. My butt and feet hit the ground, but big deal, that's what they're for. Seconds pass, seeming like hours, and I slowly open my eyes to find that it is Adrian who has saved me. I can feel his hand on the back of my head, and the other on my upper back. He's staring at me wide-eyed, with this look of utter fear and concern, and his face is verrrrry close to mine.

I am still out of it, and I attempt to stand, only to slip again, but his hands don't move from their positions. "Mr. Monk," I say, half gaping in the process, "you saved me."

The expression on his face, which is probably only a few inches away, alters from a look of fear to one of relief. He doesn't say anything, but I can see a smile slowly crossing his face. As I grin back at him, I reach out and clutch the sides of the tub with my hands, pulling myself into a seated position. It is now that he removes his hands from me, now that he realizes I'm not dizzy anymore.

Wow, am I pitiful. Falling in this stupid tub, with my shoes on, no less. Apparently Adrian doesn't feel the same way, for he's still smiling with relief, and not humor or disdain, at the situation. Wait? Am I calling him Adrian now? Did I say it out loud? No, I don't believe so, but I think maybe I feel closer to him, now that he has saved my life…. Not that he hadn't done so when I was dangling off the back of the dump truck... but it was still so early and I hadn't actually seen his face as he was hanging out of the police car. Maybe it's different now because it was such a close call, and I mean close as in proximity, that I feel this way. It does have a nice ring to it, Adrian…. Hmmmmm….

He starts to stand up again as I slowly pull myself to my feet. Once I am standing, he offers me a hand to get out of the tub, and even though I am shocked by this, I take it, and carefully step out of the death-vat. Now I'm uncomfortable. Should I try to hug him? I would with anyone else, but maybe it'd be okay to ask, since he did offer me his bare hand.

"Mr. Monk?" I say breathlessly. It comes out sounding way too fragile for my taste, and he can sense this, for he's studying my face. When he finally makes eye contact with me, I go to say it. "Can I hug you?" His shoulders twitch a bit, and I can tell I've made him uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," I say, straightening out my jeans. I assume he'll back out into the hallway soon, to regain a comfort zone. This bathroom really is too small for such a question.

Instead of his retreat, he opens his mouth to speak. "No, don't be sorry," he mumbles quietly. "You can hug me… that is— if you want t—"

I step forward and put my arms around him, pressing my head against his chest. His voice chokes off at my sudden move, and he just stands there stiffly as I continue to embrace him, and then softly, ever so softly, he pats my back. I take this as a signal that he's getting anxious, so I release my hold and step away from him, continuing to smile.

His face is now flushed, and he doesn't make eye contact with me, instead turning to head into the main room. I guess that's understandable. I scared him, that's all. But did he wipe his hand off after I grabbed it? Maybe that's what he is going to do, and he doesn't want me to see it.

I go out into the main room, where he is opening up his suitcase. I notice two pictures shoved in the mesh pocketing on the inside. "What are those pictures of?" I ask him, walking towards him. He shuts it quickly.

"Pictures?" he stammers weakly, clicking the handle of his luggage back together.

"Yeah, I saw two pictures… in your suitcase just now…." He's giving me a sheepish look now. Is he embarrassed? "Mr. Monk, you don't have to be ashamed," I say reassuringly.

"It's…not…that…." he mumbles, squeezing past me to finish up the bathroom floor.

I sit on the bed, contemplating whether or not to bother him about the pictures, because I can't help being curious as to what they are. He seems a little too touchy about them. I open the bathroom door to find him trying to remove the excess bleach-water from the floor.

"Mr. Monk," I say. "Why don't you take a break from the bleach? It obviously bothered you before, when you were sitting on the edge of the tub."

"No, it didn't," he murmurs. "There was a—I was just…thinking…."

"You're always thinking," I reply, closing the door once more.

Over the next couple of hours, I scrub the mildew off of the curtains, vacuum the entire room, and attempt to remove some of the grosser-looking stains, which I find to be the most stubborn as well. Adrian is still in the bathroom, probably finishing up on the second coat of bleach-water. Oh well, I gotta let him do what he wants, or he'll never be satisfied.

He emerges from the bathroom with the bucket and jug of bleach, three hours after my visit/fall. I look up at him from my spot on the floor, where I have been kneeling for a long time, using the latex gloves as knee pads. I will not allow for any part of my body to directly touch the floor, even though I have successfully removed a decent amount of crud.

"So, is the bathroom all done?" I ask, knowing just what to expect: a no.

"Well…." It's his signature phrase of uncertainty. Here goes; he's going to tell me that he's run out of bleach. "Actually," he adds, lifting the bucket, "I finished the floor… and the walls…. But before I went to clean out the tub, I read on the CLR label that it should never be combined with bleach. So…." He looks down at his feet.

"Mr. Monk," I say, rising to my feet. "That's only if you pour them into the same container."

"—But the tub is a container," he blurts.

"After I used the CLR, I rinsed it completely off the tub and the shower stall. There is no CLR to combine with the bleach."

"Are you sure? Because I don't want to d—"

"Do you want me to use the bleach on the tub? I'm not worried about it."

He shakes his head. "No, I have to be sure about the—" He notices a microscopic stain on the floor that I had just happened to overlook. I stare at him, waiting for his attention to return to the subject at hand, but it doesn't. It's amazing how he can be in his own little world in a matter of seconds, and not be able to emerge.

I can't even see the supposed spot that he is focused on, although I lean forward to the point of almost losing my balance. "I couldn't get out everything," I say, and he is immediately disgusted.

"Well, give me the cleaner and I'll get it out," he states. Was that confidence I heard?

I hand him the spray bottle, forgetting in my glove-wearing numbness the cleaner solution dripping down the sides of the container. He now has the wet bottle in his hand, and is giving me this look of extreme resentment. I hastily take it back, and wipe it off with the rag.

"Here," I say, holding it out to him again. He doesn't accept it. "Here," I repeat.

"Y-you've been scrubbing the floor with that rag. It's even filthier than the cleaner…."

"Let's hope so," I remark. I accept the fact that my work will never satisfy him. I kneel back down onto the floor and continue my scrubbing, and he silently retreats into the bathroom once more.

We continue cleaning, scrubbing, dusting, and polishing for hours and hours until my hands have blisters all over them and I am completely exhausted. Hating my sweatiness, I kick my shoes off at the bathroom threshold and head into the sparkling clean room with my shower supplies and pajamas to get a quick shower. I have forgotten that Adrian is still in here, for he turns around suddenly, flashing me this puzzled look from his spot in front of the sink where he has been polishing the mirror with the Windex. He has removed his shoes as well, but he is still wearing his dress socks.

"I'm going to take a shower now, Mr. Monk," I tell him. "That mirror is good enough for now."

"But—I thought I was goi—"

"You've been in here for hours. Aren't you tired of this room yet?" That's one thing I don't understand. He's claustrophobic, yet he's been in this 6 x 8 room for hours on end.

"No, it's not that," he replies. "I have to take a shower first."

"Why? You're not even prepared."

"You have to let me go first," he explains. "If you go first, I'll have to sterilize the tub again, and then I won't get any sleep, and…." He trails off, hoping he's made his point, I assume. I'm proud of him to be able to admit that he has a problem, even though he's not phrasing it in that exact way.

"Well, what about you?" I say. "I'm sure you're dirty and sweaty as well. What makes you think I want to stand in there after you?"

"—But you're not like me…." he mumbles. "I need to know it's completely clean before I can even think abou—"

"Okay, okay," I reply, raising my hands in surrender. "You can go first. But please come out here and get your stuff. I don't want to wait all night."

"Right now?"

I tap my bare foot on the linoleum. "Well, if you don't want to go right now, then I will."

He sighs, slumping his shoulders in defeat, and slips past me without making contact with me or the stuff I'm holding. He must be a lot thinner than he appears to be in the boxy blazers he always wears. I can see that he's about to step on the carpet, when he realizes he is not wearing his shoes.

Slowly, he lowers himself to a squat and proceeds to slip each shoe on. Afterwards, he begins to tie them in such a complicated way that I almost want to shove him over so he has to touch the carpet, because precious minutes are killed and no one has taken a shower yet.

After he manages to get his shoes tied, he walks over to his suitcase. I put my shoes back on as I stare at the spot where those pictures will be, and make my way over as he lifts the lid.

He sees me coming and immediately lowers the lid again. "You know," he says, "it's rude to stare at someone's luggage."

"I'd ask you where you came up with that," I reply, "but I don't want to waste any more time."

I continue to watch his suitcase until he can't stand it anymore, and he turns so his back is facing me and his luggage is blocked from view.

As he lifts the lid again, I stand on tiptoe and can see that one of the pictures is indeed Trudy, as I had suspected. I have seen pictures of his late wife all over his house, just like I keep pictures of Mitch everywhere. This really strikes a chord with me, that he carries a picture with her on trips, because I happen to have pictures of Mitch taped to the visor of the Cherokee, stuck in the corner of my bathroom mirror, and hanging on the walls of every room of my home.

All the pictures I've seen of Trudy are quite youthful; she looks to have been younger than me in all of them, and she is very pretty. It's horrible to think that when a person dies, they are forever frozen in time. You'll never be able to imagine them as an old person, or as a grandfather or grandmother, but will only see them as the people in the pictures that you keep with you as a reminder of their eternal youth. When it finally sinks in that they are gone for good, that's when you hope that there really is a heaven, so you can see them again. I'd do anything just to see Mitch one more time…

It's hard to believe that Adrian has pulled through all these years, not even having a child from his marriage to Trudy to continue life with. It's definitely made coping a lot easier for me, knowing that there is still a piece of Mitch I still have with me, our child Julie, and that she has a future with me. I'll watch her grow up, and maybe she'll resemble Mitch in some ways, or maybe she'll say something that Mitch would have said; these constant reminders of him in our child together will never allow his memory to fade from my heart.

It is then that I notice the other picture. It's of Adrian and a pretty blonde woman, but this woman is stockier than Trudy, with a pile of curls high atop her head, and wearing very tight clothing. She has his arm around him and he's smiling and leaning in towards her. Could it be that he has a girlfriend I don't know about?

He doesn't realize that I can see the pictures, as he is in the process of digging for his toiletries. I am still staring at the picture pinned behind the mesh with the mystery woman and him. She and the detective appear to be very close, and obviously hold lots of affection for each other. They are actually both leaning towards each other, and it seems like a very mutual relationship. Let's face it; he's letting her put her hand behind his back!

It is now that Adrian notices I am staring at the pictures, and he hastily closes the suitcase, knocking over the bottle of shampoo he had standing up inside.

I nudge his shoulder. "So, who's the mystery woman?" I say, trying to sound casual, although I'm quite excited to know.

He gapes at me. "Mystery woman?" he mumbles. "I don't know what you are t—"

"The woman with the curly hair… and the miniskirt."


To be continued... Review!