"What are you sa—you can't be serious," he mumbles, paling considerably. "You are not sleeping with—in this bed." He's shaking his head the whole time, crossing over to the left side of the bed.
"What do you propose I do then, Mr. Monk?" I say, as I pull the sheet and blanket back to get in. I might as well speed up the process. Hopefully this doesn't resort to physical violence, of him actually trying to force me out of the bed.
"There's… the floor," he says. "You can use the old sheets, and the comforter, and the—"
"That floor is horrible!" I exclaim. "I will not sleep there! If you can't handle me being in this bed, then you can sleep on the floor!"
I start to slip my knee under the sheets, but the detective quickly hops onto the left side of the bed and pushes me away with an outstretched arm.
"You must not have cleaned it very well then…" he mutters, glancing down at the floor. I can feel the anger rising in my throat. This is not going to be pretty, if this predicament doesn't work out fast.
"I cleaned it as well as I could," I state, "but there are still stains. I don't trust it…."
"But aren't there cots? There has to be a cot you can borr—"
"No, Mr. Monk," I say sternly. "I already inquired."
"When? Maybe there's one available now."
"I'm sure there isn't." I cross my arms and glare at him.
"Uhm, how about I move the television and luggage, and you can sleep on the dresser?" he offers timidly, gesturing towards it. The look I give him answers his question.
"Well, I'm going home then," he states, slipping back off the bed. "I can't do this…. Sharona was with me for years and we never—"
"Were you and Sharona in this very same situation?" I say angrily. He gapes at me, but doesn't say anything. "That's right; I didn't think so. You would have had to do it then, just as you're going to have to do it now." He doesn't acknowledge my reply.
I watch him go to his suitcase again, and place its contents back in order. I let him shut his bag and fill the garbage bag with the cleaners and supplies. The silence between us is deafening.
As he approaches the door with suitcase in one hand, and the garbage bag slipping on his other hand, I finally speak.
"We can't go anywhere," I say flatly.
"Why not?" He doesn't even turn around.
"I can't find the keys anywhere," I say. "They seem to have disappeared into thin air."
Fifteen minutes later, and we are still in the same dilemma. I know that he wants to look through my luggage, but I've already searched through it and am sure that the Cherokee keys are not there.
He steps out in the hallway, shuffling his shoes on the ruined carpet, and I count the seconds it takes for him to return to the room. Fifteen.
"You're going to have to find another room," he states, as he reenters the bedroom.
I slip off my shoes and get into the right side of the bed, throwing the covers over myself. "You can find another room," I say, "or else deal with it."
"You know," he chides, shaking his finger, "Sharona said something very similar to that to me during the course of a whole day –well, I started it—although she didn't use the exact wor—"
"I don't really care," I snap. "I'm tired, and I'm going to sleep on these clean sheets." The mattress is rather comfortable, in a broken-in sort of way.
He stares at me for a few seconds, perhaps expecting me to change my mind and get out, but when I turn over to face the other wall, he begins to pace back and forth. This is a losing battle for him. Why does this bother him so much anyway? It's just like watching a show together on a couch and falling asleep. There's unconsciousness involved, which is a very safe state of mind. Besides, there's nothing else we can do about it; I'd prefer not to do this, but we're stranded here and we have to make do with what we have. Even if I did find the keys right now, we are miles from the next motel and I really don't like driving at night in unfamiliar places, especially one like Death Valley.
The motel's sheets and comforter are in a neat pile atop the television, and he reaches for them, but jerks back at knowing they are the motel's. This internal conflict continues for a good while, because I nod off for probably a half hour or so. I'm awakened by his accidental kicking of the bedpost as he makes his way to the bathroom with the stack of motel sheets. He sucks in a breath of air so loudly at the painful contact, it rouses me even further, and I sit up to gaze at him under my heavy eyelids.
"What are you doing?" I say groggily, watching him cringe.
"W-why don't you take these sheets… and sleep in the bathtub?" he offers, a little too eagerly. He bends down to rub his foot.
I sit up quickly, allowing my hair to cover my face. "Oh, that sounds really comfortable," I spout. I stare at him from his place in front of the dresser. "I fixed this bed, and I'm sleeping in it. Simple as that."
"Well… let me refix it then…." He states, making his way to untuck the corner of the bed.
"Don't you dare touch it!" I exclaim, making him flinch and reconsider.
He goes to touch the stack of motel sheets again and jerks his hand back again. This room really does suck. There are no chairs or couches: just the bed, the dresser, and a nightstand, where I've put my alarm clock. I watch him a while longer, actually beginning to feel pity for him, for he's been at this for a good hour now. I pat the blanket on the left side of the bed, and he looks up from his concentrated effort to find a sleeping-place.
"Sit here, Mr. Monk," I say kindly, for intimidation and anger is exactly what will keep him awake all night, and I don't want that. We…—well, he—has to work on this investigation tomorrow, and Stottlemeyer will blame me if my employer is sleep-deprived.
The detective stares at my hand, and shakes his head slowly. "There's no harm in sitting on the bed," I state.
"I… can't…." he blurts.
"Well, why not?"
"It's a… bed…. And… you're in it…. And… there's only one blanket…. No—I just can't do that to Trudy…." He trails off, apparently giving me excuses he deems valid enough for his behavior.
"Listen, Mr. Monk," I say, leaning forward as he continues to stand still, "Both you and I will be unconscious the whole night. I'll keep to my side of the bed, and you will keep to your side. Trudy was once your bedmate, as Mitch was mine, so I can understand that. But even if they were still alive, this is a completely platonic thing and neither one of them would be angry."
He's devastated by this choice. "I'll never be able to forgive myself for—"
"You're not going to be cheating on Trudy, okay!" I exclaim. "We are being forced to do this, and we'll be sleeping the entire time!"
"But I might have to go to the bathroo—"
"You know what I mean," I say hastily, and pat the bed again. "I promise I will stay on my side. You need to get decent sleep tonight; it's already midnight."
He approaches the bed timidly, like it's a land mine or something. "Sit here, Mr. Monk," I say quietly and carefully, as I pat the mattress. "It's okay…."
He's staring at me incredulously now, which tells me he may be in some state of acceptance. I turn away from him to allow him some privacy in his moment of choice, and I can feel the mattress sink a bit as he takes a seat on it, slipping his shoes and socks off.
Review! And I'll thank you!
