Paul Smecker stared around his apartment as if daring some dirt to appear. He'd taken a half-day at work, come home, and scoured the place within an inch of its life. It hadn't been that dirty to start with-- only cluttered with paperwork and the odd coffee mug-- but all the same, he'd attacked what clutter there was. He found cleaning therapeutic.
'Therapeutic'. Now there was a word laden with implications. The primary one being that he needed therapy.
The agent snorted darkly to himself as he straightened one last book on the shelf. Not something he'd never heard before. From many sources. Only lately, though, had he come to acknowledge that while he might not consider himself crazy, he couldn't deny (at least to himself) that he was feeling the stress.
Something a little self-indulgent, hedonism for hedonism's sake... he didn't have the time for it, of course. But he was making the time today.
The apartment was spotless. Paul sat down on his couch, drummed his fingers on one knee, then picked up his remote to turn on the stereo. The digital clock that was part of the sound system said she should be here very shortly.
[ooc: somewhat meta given that whole 'battleship' thing]