Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu Read Online Free PDF

wanted to hug him, but that’s the mother in me. I want to hug everybody who looks the least bit unhappy. I never had that urge until Julie was born. Instead we shook hands.
    He mumbled a “How are you?” and we made some unmemorable small talk while we ordered our coffee and pastries and found a table. Then there was a long, awkward moment of silence while we blew on our coffees and tried to ignore the long, awkward moment of silence.
    “I’m beginning to understand Monk a whole lot better,” he finally said.
    “Why is that?”
    “He always had his problems, but when he was with Trudy, he found a balance. He could function. But after he lost her, he lost himself,” Stottlemeyer said. “He fell apart. He tries desperately to organize every little detail of the world around him because he thinks if he succeeds, he can put himself back together again.”
    “You’ve always known that,” I said.
    “Yeah, but not like I know it now,” Stottlemeyer said.
    “Why is that?”
    “I’m alone,” he said. “You’d think I wouldn’t mind, considering.”
    “Considering what?”
    “My wife used to tell me I was in my own little world, shutting her and everybody else out,” he said. “She said that it was like living in the house alone. But it’s not. I know the difference.”
    “Now you do,” I said, and regretted it the instant the words came out of my mouth.
    He nodded. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
    “I’m sorry,” I said.
    “Don’t be,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m lucky I stayed married as long as I did, given my profession. I see the worst side of humanity every day. I thought I was protecting her from it. Do you think if I told her everything, if I came home and vomited up my day, she’d still be with me?”
    I shrugged.
    He stared into his coffee. “Up until now, I always had the job to keep me busy, to occupy my time. The thing is, Natalie, I don’t know how to be alone.”
    “You aren’t,” I said. “You still have your family and friends.”
    “Is that what people told you when your husband died?”
    “Your wife isn’t dead.”
    “She might as well be,” he said. “And each time I see her and she walks away, I die a little, too.”
    “Have you told her that?”
    “She knows,” Stottlemeyer said.
    I wasn’t going to argue the point. I didn’t know him or Karen well enough to judge whether he was right.
    “So you’re afraid you’re going to turn into Mr. Monk?”
    “As a matter of fact, yes, I am,” he said. “Only without the part where I become brilliant at solving crimes.”
    “That’s not going to happen.”
    “Natalie, you know what I did last night? I shined my shoes. I never shine my shoes.”
    “Did you measure the laces to be sure they were even? Did you place them in their original, mint-condition shoe boxes and arrange them by color?”
    “No,” he said.
    “Then you aren’t Monk,” I said.
    “It sure felt Monkish to me,” Stottlemeyer said. “I took one look at my shoes this morning, went outside, and rubbed mud all over them.”
    Okay, now that was strange. But I kept my opinion to myself.
    “Shining your shoes, cleaning your pantry, whatever—it’s the little things, the mundane rituals and responsibilities of life, that get you through the worst of it,” I said. “You’re functioning even if you feel like you’re not. I think it’s part of healing. And then one day, you wake up and the sadness isn’t so heavy and your garage is organized. It’s like a bonus.”
    He seemed to mull that over for a while; then he sighed. “Thanks, Natalie. I appreciate this.”
    “Anytime, Captain,” I said, purposely keeping it formal. I didn’t want him rebounding in my direction. “What are you going to do now?”
    He shrugged. “Start cleaning my garage, I guess.”
    My cell phone rang. It was Monk. And I couldn’t believe what he told me.
    “I’ll be right over,” I said. I snapped the phone shut and stared at Stottlemeyer.
    “What is it?” he