I'm at home. I skipped out of work early today. Our crispy critter is stable, and the clinic is closed for President's Day, so it's not like PPTH would grind to a halt if I weren't there.

Besides, today was a red-letter day on GH: Holly's back, and I wanted to be able to devote my full attention to this very important event. If I tried to watch in my office, someone would have been rapping on the glass, bothering me. My coma guy's room is out -- Cuddy's on to me there.

I was thinking about the digs over in Oncology -- they do have that sweet flat-screen with the TiVo -- but then I'd end up watching my show in the company of a certain gossipy boy wonder. I'd have to explain everything and everybody to him again, and he wouldn't pay attention and spend the whole time turning everything, down to the last Huggies ad, to the topic of Stacey. It's getting old. And my leg's been bad today. So between my wanting to watch Holly in peace and wanting to put my leg up in comfort, home was the place to be.

I got home a little before three. As I put my key in the lock, I heard something in my apartment and stopped to listen. It was a vacuum cleaner. Of course -- it was Monday, the cleaning lady was there. I grimaced, turned the doorknob, and stepped into the apartment.

Mrs Brudzik's been coming for a couple of years now. Our relationship is mostly epistolary: every Monday she leaves me a note, and on the first Monday of the month I leave my response in the form of a check. It's been a while since I've actually seen her.

I think she's getting deaf. She was vacuuming the living room and had her back turned to the door as I entered. She didn't hear me come in, even as I rattled my keys (intentionally) and sent the chair skidding into the desk as I tossed down my bag (unintentionally.) She shut off the vacuum, turned to unplug it, and jumped a little when she saw me.

"Oh! Dr House! I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you -- I can leave the rest, if you need me to go --"

"Don't worry about it." I waved my hand as I crossed the living room.

"Are you off today?"

"Just early. Good day today: we cured all the patients and sent 'em all home."

She smiled nervously. She doesn't know what to make of me, and I could tell that she was trying to not stare at my cane. I went on to the kitchen. As I fixed my snack, I could hear the vacuum's wheels squeaking as she rolled it back to the closet, and then the clang of the dryer door. I went back out into the living room. Plate on the side table, leg on the ottoman, remote in the right hand, and off to Port Charles.

And soon, there she was. Holly! How many years has it been since I've seen her? She looked so different without all that big '80's hair.

I caught a whiff of orange thirty or forty minutes into the show, and realized that Mrs B had come out from the bedroom. I turned to look at her and she quickly turned her head, pretending that she wasn't watching TV over my shoulder as she dusted the bookshelves. She'd left a bag of trash and a bag of newspapers by the door, and I realized that this room was her last stop -- that she saved the dusting for last so she could watch her show while she worked. For an instant I felt like I was the intruder, and then I just felt annoyed: annoyed with myself, and then annoyed with her, and then annoyed that I pay a woman with grandchildren to take out my paper to the recycling bin because it's easier than trying to handle it myself. Annoyed that I was at home instead of in my office because the people at work annoy me so much. Annoyed because I was annoyed instead of enjoying being at home.

My reverie was interrupted by a surge of pain coming from where my vastus lateralis used to be, boring through my leg like an electrified corkscrew. I caught my breath and reached for my Vicodin, rattling the bottle a little before I shook the pill out into my palm. Behind me, Mrs Brudzik went on with the dusting, but I could feel her anxiety. I gave my full attention to the commercials.

The show came back on. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mrs Brudzik pushing a dustmop back and forth and then returning it to the closet. She came back out and started putting her coat on. "Well, I can just tell you -- I deep-cleaned the kitchen today, washed out the icebox and cleaned the coils." she said.

For a nanosecond or two, I thought about getting up to let her out. But I was still annoyed with her, and I was comfortable on the sofa. "Okay," I grunted. She finished buttoning her coat,walked over to the door, grabbed the trash, and left.

It was just as well. In the time it took her to do all that, I would have still been getting myself up off of the couch. The thought of dinner and how I would prepare it flitted through my mind. I shoved the thought away -- I'd deal with it later. Dinner, Wilson, Cuddy... later, I'll deal with all of it later. Right now I just want to be left alone.