His face is actually turning red. I just want to drag the response out of him, for he is practically glaring at me in a stunned silence; this question obviously bothers him.

"Oh…" he trails off, seemingly realizing who she is. "She must have stuck that in there, because I didn't even know it was—"

"Who is it? Is it an old girlfriend?" I say, ridiculously curious.

After more dirty looks and roundabout answers from the detective, whom I have already established as the worst liar ever, I reach for the suitcase and throw open its lid, exposing the pictures.

I point at the picture of the curly-haired blonde. "What's her name?" I feel a little immature at my persistence, but it's easy to be intrigued by such an enigma.

"That's… Sharona Fleming…." he says, sighing as he speaks, seemingly apologetic. "My old assistant."

"Ohhh," I reply, finally satisfied. "Looks like you two were really close…."

He's taken aback by this comment, and is struck speechless. His face is as red as ever, and he attempts to loosen his shirt collar with a trembling hand.

"—Why do you say that?" he manages to ask.

I am flabbergasted. Were these two not close? Hmm…

"Well, you two look very comfortable with each other," I begin. "You're letting her put her arm around you, and you both look genuinely happy."

After an awkward silence, he speaks up again. "It's strange why she stuck that picture in the—"

It's obvious that he's lying. "Mr. Monk, I know you put it there, and it's okay," I interrupt, touching his arm. "I'm very happy that you two were close; it shows me that you're not completely detached from people."

He shrugs in an extremely uncomfortable way and resumes his search for toiletries in the suitcase without saying another word. I glance at the picture a moment longer, then grab the remote control from the top of the television and switch on the T.V. to the Hallmark channel that we had been watching. I'm not going to slow him up any more with comments or staring. If he doesn't want me to mention his old assistant, then he shouldn't put a picture of her in his luggage. Oh well. I take a seat on the bed, and turn on the Lifetime channel. It's odd how a garbage-heap motel like this can actually have decent programming.

The 'television for women' channel is enough to hurry Adrian up, for he's now stacking his clothes on one side of the suitcase feverishly in attempt to unearth his soap, and whatever else he uses to shower. Within five minutes of my turning on the station, he has grabbed his bar of Zest soap, his nightclothes and socks, a rag and towel, and his shampoo and conditioner. As soon as I suppose that he is holding all that he needs, he adds some shaving cream and a razor to the stack, attempting to hide them from my view by shoving them in the towel.

After a brief annoyed glance in my direction, although not quite making eye contact, he heads off to the bathroom. Once he has slipped off his shoes and placed them parallel to each other by the threshold, he enters the tiny room and shuts the door. I assume I'll hear the water starting up soon, but instead I hear the door continually shutting and opening back up with a creak, and the detective's failed efforts to lock it. Apparently the door doesn't lock….

I am able to tolerate the continuous sound of clicks, creaks, and bangs for a matter of five minutes or so, but my head begins to ache after that time period.

I slide off the bed and walk over to the bathroom, where Adrian is still opening and closing the door. I wait for him to open it the slight distance inward and then shut it, and once he does this, I grab the doorknob and pull it towards me.

The next time he attempts to open the door, he fails, for I am holding it on the other side. "Oh my God, I'm trapped—" His cries are muffled behind the door, as he is now beginning to panic. I can sense he'll be getting quite vocal soon if I don't explain what has just happened, so I open the door….

He is standing squarely in front of the door as it swings open, with his shirt unbuttoned and beads of sweat forming along his hairline. He jumps back at the sight of me, almost falling back onto the toilet in the process. I immediately put my hands up with palms toward him, hoping the gesture of surrender will calm him.

"Mr. Monk, as you and I are aware now, this door doesn't lock." I gesture towards the brass fixture.

He's staring fearfully at the doorknob like it's a chained-up junkyard dog or something. "It… has to lock," he murmurs, continuing to stare at the offending object.

I step forward, and he proceeds to retreat again, bumping the back of his knees on the toilet and falling upon the closed toilet seat. He's now looking up at me from the seat with horror in his eyes, clutching his shirt together with white knuckles.

"How about this?" I say matter-of-factly. "I promise not to come in here. In fact, I'll let you put a chair against the door, to ensure that I don't come in." I wait for his response, which I hope is soon, because I really feel disgusting right now.

He shakes his head. "I… can't shower, knowing that anyone can walk right in here," he mutters quietly.

"Mr. Monk, our room door is locked. The only person who could ever walk in here is me, and I assure you that I won't."

He rises slowly, eyes darting around the room. "I can't do it…. It's just not possible…." I am getting quite fed up now; this is just pathetic. I grab him by his arm and pull him with me, out of the bathroom.

"Well, if you can't handle it then I'm taking a shower right now," I remark, and I drag him over to my suitcase where I proceed to open it and get my shower supplies out.

"No! No! Stop! Please! My socks! Oh God…" he yelps, yanking his arm away from mine and making his way on tiptoe for the bathroom again. Oops. I forgot he didn't have his shoes on.

I slip around him quickly with my supply pile and cut him off at the door. "You can't shower in here, remember? I'm going now."

"W-w-wait," he stutters, putting his hands up as a sign to stop. "Germs trump the fear of my getting walked in on… so it'd be better for me to shower first." He attempts to slip past me and stand on the threshold in his socks, but I am centered in the doorway, and so there's no way he can squeeze by.

I glare at him from the coveted position. "So you are going to shower?" I ask him, crossing my arms, and he makes eye contact with me finally.

"Yes," he mumbles, discouraged.

"Will you leave the door alone and take your shower?" I say hastily, hoping he'll say no so that I can commence with my shower. It doesn't bother me if he has a speck of dirt on him, which I'm sure is the case.

He's unsure of how to respond, and so he begins to re-button his shirt in remembrance. I take this response as a no, so I turn around and act as if I'm going to enter the room. I then feel his arm grabbing my shoulder.

I turn around to find him in frustrated mode, giving me this look of death. "Okay, I'll leave the door alone…."

"Promise?"

He nods his head, more than a little upset. "Yes," he responds.

I squeeze past him again, allowing him to enter the room. He shuts the door and finally I hear him starting the water.

After reestablishing myself on the bed and turning Lifetime back on, I proceed to watch the washed-up actors and actresses recite lines seemingly from soap operas in their feminist tales of woe and deceit. It's during the first commercial that I am able to hear that the detective is now showering, for the water is coming down in spurts, making dribbling sounds as the path of it is deflected. Thank goodness.

I must actually fall asleep during the time he is showering, for he startles me out of my reverie in the journey to his luggage once he's done. He's wearing long-sleeved maroon pajamas with his dress shoes and a different pair of socks, and I can't help but let out a giggle at the sight. As he puts his toiletries back into his suitcase and lines up the cleaners precisely, he takes a seat on the bed, giving me a strange look.

I realize that it is now 10:30 at night and so I hurry into the bathroom with my supplies and take a quick fifteen-minute shower, not even bothering to wash my hair. I had accidentally left my shampoo/conditioner bottle in the main room anyway. Upon my emergence from the bathroom, I find that Adrian is digging around in his suitcase again.

"What are you looking for?" I say, startling him in his search.

"Uhm.… well… a night…light," he manages to murmur, and I can't help but gape.

"I'm not going to be able to sleep with a nightlight, Mr. Monk," I say, annoyed at his strange sleeping habits. He continues to dig, not even acknowledging my comment, and I strip the bed of its comforter. Maybe he doesn't like my pajamas. They are cutesy, with little white clouds all over the blue flannelish fabric, and the top is a little too skimpy even for my taste, but oh well, it had been on the top of my drawer, and it matches the pants.

He spins around, facing me, obviously in absolute shock at my removal of the bedding. I ignore him, continuing to remove the blankets and spotted-up sheets as he stares, and folding each bedding article neatly into perfect squares. I then pull the new sheets out of the garbage bag that Disher had brought us, and shake them out over the bed. The detective has already replaced the motel's pillowcase with his own navy blue one.

Adrian continues to gape as I put on the fitted sheet and smooth it out over the mattress. I didn't expect him to help me, so I'm not surprised at all. Even though I squeeze past him several times to tuck the sheets in on the other side of the bed, he doesn't say a word. Only when I begin to shake the other sheet out does he decide to make his presence known.

As I am tucking the sheet under the mattress, I can tell the detective is probably staring a hole through me, for he is still standing in the same place and hasn't moved a muscle. He makes a throat-clearing sound, but I act as if I don't hear it. I put the motel's blanket back on the bed, tucking it in as well, and, as I slip past him, he sticks an arm out, halting me at waistline.

Once he realizes what he has touched, he jerks his hand back, but I do look at him this time. "What is it?" I say innocently. I cross back over to the right side of the bed, removing and replacing the motel's pillowcase with the one in the bag, watching him carefully the entire time.

"W-what are you doing?" he asks breathlessly.

"Fixing the bed for tonight," I say. "Those sheets are disgusting."

"Thank you for noticing," he replies, "but I use my own pillowcase—and I don't sleep on that side of the bed."

"I know that," I say, waiting his response. This is going to be interesting, breaking the news to him.

"Then—why—how do you kn—why are you doing that then?" he manages to blurt.

"Well, to answer your first question, I figured most men sleep on the left side of the bed. Mitch always did. My father does. As for the second question—" I pause momentarily, knowing that he will not like the next thing I'm going to say. "—that's my pillowcase."


Opinions? Comments? Suggestions? Review, please! And I will post another chapter tomorrow!