because bottled water just sucks

It’s a Monday, when she finally decides that it’s time to move on. This is heartbreaking in itself because Mondays already have a sour stagnant feel about them. The feeling that something is roaring just beneath the surface is always sharper, and it makes her feel sick like she might throw up.

Suddenly everything becomes so clear.

Michael takes his “entourage” out for something that actually turns out to be work-related. Michael and Dwight are celebrating when they return, arms up like Olympic athletes. Andy is strutting and Jim looks (happy smug satisfied excited content) different. Michael loudly tells her about the “huge super wicked awesome sweet” sale they made and she raises an eyebrow. As he struts into his office, she stands and holds out her hand, ready for Jim’s high-five.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, Dwight strikes a rock star pose before slapping her hand, with an exuberant “Yesssssss!”

Even eating lunch the next day, overhearing Karen recount every gruesome detail, is different (from how it should be.)

She almost stops thinking about Jim when she’s dragged to the back room for sparkling apple juice (because Toby doesn’t approve of champagne) after she happens to mention that she’s going to start working on her arts degree at the local college. She giggles, bumping him with her elbow, and too many memories rush back in.

On Thursday, she discreetly scans the classifieds online. When Dwight approaches to hand her his outgoing papers, she resists the urge to minimize the window. Her heart pounds as he glances at the monitor and fixes her with a strange look that falls nowhere on her scale of expressions, but tastes of disdain.

“Looking to abandon Dunder-Mifflin? I knew you were a traitor.”

And that’s enough to get his head up.

She stands, shrugging with a casual air and moves to file the stack; she hopes he doesn’t tell Michael.

By the time she’s seated again, Jim is hovering a step away from her desk with a tentative expression on his face. He shifts from one foot to the other eleven times before moving forward, gently putting both hands on the edge of the counter. He’s shy.

“Can we talk about this?”

She hopes the look she gives him isn’t too angry, but she’s tired and she just can’t handle talking about nothing with him anymore. (I’d brave the ice for a breath of fresh air.)

When she leaves, she slides a dish of black jellybeans across the counter (because Dwight likes them) with a wink and a slip of paper - the same stationary she’d used to request meetings in the conference room (she dropped one on Andy’s desk after the squirrel incident) or share a joke with a friend (guess what Jon Stewart said last night). It has her email address on it, along with a poorly rendered drawing of the reception area.

She wakes up on February 13th and feels like she’s finally herself. Her new neighbor invites her over for coffee (and tea, because Julie hates coffee). They talk and talk, and she feels grown-up (in the good way) because they’re just friends and they’re struggling and Julie confesses that she can’t ever see herself being happy.

Later, when Julie joins her at a café for lunch and they end up sharing apple pie, she feels like something heavy has finally fallen away from her chest. It’s strange and unfamiliar, but a sideways smile and some really nice décor go a long way, and a new start is always good.

It hurts at first, but when she finally fills out an application and hears Julie clapping as she slides it into the mailbox, she doesn’t miss him.

She just wants the hurting to be worth it.

Whisper in my ear "I know what you're doing here"

She doesn’t look back.

Flashes of the past in her ear recede into the hum of her own heart and before she knows it her hands are smudged with ink and she’s not even thinking of what she’s lost.

She would paint her last day in pastels smudged with grays and blues because she can’t quite spit out what she wants to say. She stares into the light and forces back tears that she can't quite face yet.

Michael makes a speech and she holds back (tears), only hearing hours wasted being a voice on the end of the line. She feels a wisp of regret with arms around her and “I’ll miss you,” is an echo of what she could (should) have said to begin with.

A smile and “hey, (this doesn’t matter anyways)” isn’t enough to keep her anywhere.

She leaves the curtains open and sits on the floor, shivering and sifting through her past. Breath catching in her throat, papers in garbage bags she cuts out the past. A post-it note is a waste, and she steels herself with a breath before lugging the bags out to the dumpster.

She doesn’t have a shredder but the sound of ripping paper reminds her (I promise I’ll start over) because a blank page is better than nothing.

She sits in the dark letting what she hasn’t thrown out yet slide through her fingers. Paper doves in the air for me to shoot down. Shadows move around her and this is safe because anything that could hurt her is tied up and in the dumpster behind her building. (This is over)

In the morning she drinks tea and smears paint on canvas, (paint the future and I’ll show you a dream).

She leaves the garbage bags (like she knew she would) and tries not to imagine shards of green glass and torn white paper.

I don't know what I would have done

(there you stood)

She never imagined the city the way it is but somehow traffic and crowds envelope her and swarms of blurred faces splash over broad sketches and fade into grays and blues. A slender light post stretches up from strong dark lines.

She walks to work and watches the lights of houses flicker on and illuminate the city before sunrise. Work is quiet in a gallery and she feels herself expanding with the tall windows and open doorways.

It’s a marathon of long walks, bills, and almost half dates before she gets it.

***

Solitude is picking up mail with (only) her name on it and staying up late drawing a tangled fern on her neighbor’s balcony. She eats breakfast at noon and smiles because this is freedom.

***

Its night and she’s staying in to watch TV and listen to the distant echo of fireworks. Leaning against cool glass she can almost dream of warm sunrises. Hands drifting up to rest under her chin she studies the translucent grayscale reflection because something about cardigan-free days and cool breezes in a quiet apartment makes her happy content.

Avoiding jello and laser tag gets easier, and peace in a new velvet scarf makes things too easy. Peace is an echo and things do get easier.

Mind flitting forward she yawns, lips curving easily (it’s all in the tiniest victories), fireworks shimmering in the sky. She curls up in bed and this is a fairytale with purple skies and faded memories and distant dreams.

This is going somewhere that’s a mystery.

it was healing… we had said goodbye

(time was on your side)

The past was fading (in hushed whispers when she calls her mom).

She remembers him in fits and starts when she pauses in the street or drops her pencil, the dull patter reverberating through her silent studio. And it’s kind of a frightening surprise when she does (because oh I remember that isn’t quite what she was hoping for). She’s floating in a new life where some things don’t quite fit but she looks over her shoulder and Scranton is thousands of miles away.

She draws wild spirals on napkins, thinking about new friends or repainting her kitchen and heavy warm exhaustion is nice because she falls asleep happy. She likes pacing in the grocery store and carefully selecting cereal because it’s just her (finally) and this is what it all means.

She’s in class when she realizes this is a change because she feels like maybe things were always this way and it’s not regret (which is weird because she knows that she could have had this earlier). She sits on the library stairs, watching the stars because home will wait for her, and the cool, rough stone brushes her skin and keeps her from floating away.

***

The first date isn’t awkward and it isn’t magical, but it’s a blend of biting her lip and soft laughter and hands brushing outside her apartment before. He has dark hair that reminds her of thick warm sweaters in the winter and they compare notes for art history before class.

His smile is shy and she realizes that the past isn’t as far away as she thought. But he points at buildings and sees amazing things so she nods a little and promises herself that she’ll let go for good.

***

Once he calls her late at night, she listens to his voice and sketches his words with feather light strokes because this feels familiar.

***

When she figures out that people are the same everywhere it’s a sting of fear and excitement, and stilted conversation over coffee is a good start (this is growing up in shuffling steps). She smiles and glances at half finished paintings are a new kind of game (reshuffle the desk and start again)

It’s a contest over coffee where they describe something and try to capture it overnight and Pam sits on the floor drawing arched bridges and faded cobblestones. The next morning she stumbles in the street and yawns, shrugging a little (I might get the hang of this).

***

A flicker of the past is a spark in the fire so she closes her eyes (a breath and this could be over).

It’s gone (we’ll find it)

So long to nursery rhymes and (I miss you)

She wakes up forgetting.

It’s only once but she’s a little scared and tries to peel off bits of Scranton that stuck with her longer than they should have (you can’t keep me). She sifts through old clothes and spends a weekend in her pyjamas fingers gliding over photographs, almost calling home three times.

She sits on her couch pulling her knees to her chin, face relaxing when she feels a burst excitement (this is my life) and she hugs herself a little tighter. Her clock radio buzzes in her ears and it’s still dark but I’m ready for this and she lets herself grab yoghurt at lunch, stirring it slowly. Bustling crowds and a hum in her ears (prove them wrong) and she throws it in the trash, brushing her hands on her coat and she can’t quite regret it.

Sometimes there are packages in the mail, dusty photos or old clothes that throb in the back of her head (this means nothing) but don’t push hard enough to break anything.

Distracted in class, she shades the outline of her own hands and remembers a night when they when they let him go (this is the past not hurting me).

***

Early mornings and frosted breath is repetition and she can’t quite convince her neighbour that someone could get a phone in the ceiling and she can see past Pam turning into something childish that she can’t quite hide behind.

Evolving stretches in her mind and she flips a painting upside down at work (guilt is easier when it’s wrong) and rubs her fingernails uneasily, nobody smiles at her. One-bedroom is kind of cold and helpless and this is just a different island.

Going in every night just reminds her of what she doesn't have so she leans against the brick wall of her building and wonders why she can’t just let herself be happy. (It’s everything she wanted)

The nights are warm and peaceful and oh so empty.

It’s too late for your half finished sonnet
you changed the rules (and didn’t tell me)

There are things she won’t imagine.

She bends over to grab the last box of Oreos when she catches a glimpse of something. She doesn’t move and stares at the floor because this shouldn’t be happening. She presses her lips together and closes her eyes (because this is a dream).

His voice carries a bit and she knows she should stand up and leave but her feet are rooted to the ground and pushing the lines is her new life (we all fall down)

A few steps could end it but she’s not in a cardigan anymore and somehow she can’t ignore this (it’s a test and this is all I have). So she walks forward with her chin raised, hands brushing the sides of her jeans. Smiling is easier than she thought and greetings are distant but he still makes her hands fidget and face warm and she can’t quite tell if that’s good or bad.

She realizes she’s still clutching her Oreos when he walks away and I loved you isn’t quite the right thing to say at a time like this. Words are nice but somehow it can’t be the same (we used to be part of a beautiful story).

***

She remembers drowning in half confessions and keeping something buried, and brushes off the guilt. (I didn’t abandon anything)

***

She lets the memory ferment in the back of her mind and watching cars go by from her balcony she thanks him.

(Quicksand, you can’t always win)

Don’t bother (be unkind)

I wish I could have seen it

She likes to catch glances of other lives.

Classes continue and her degree is a breath outwards (relief and what now?) and she feels like maybe she has come full circle.  She gets a better apartment and smiles and laughter doesn’t get boring and she can see herself with a different ring and a terrace and a new set of memories. 

Michael emails her sometimes with silly announcements and touchingly desperate questions.  When he tells her about Jim getting married it isn’t a shock or a blow (a pause and what might have been isn’t fair after all these years) and she gives her congratulations (I’m a part of your past, letting you go).

She could watch for him everyday but she’s half afraid (she’s walking on a delicate web).  Nervous glances and inevitable distance isn’t what she wanted for them.  Lane (the new boyfriend) rubs her hand when she says nothing and it’s gone and this is the present and she’s happy.

Wishing they had taken a chance is a memory (we’ll always have Paris, in a dream)

(Her first real painting goes up in her studio and she squeezes his hand when he laughs at the beauty in a stapler)

Nostalgia gets easier with time and eventually Jim Halpert is like a war hero, or distant ancestors.  Years later and there are scraps of him tucked in boxes and folded into photo albums and I remember is kind of a lie.

***

She hadn’t expected anything after their meeting.  But an email and “It was nice seeing you” brought back memories of notepaper under fluorescent lights and confused expressions.

She tilts her head sadly, looking for meaning in those casual words, (it’s too late isn’t it?) and it takes her half an hour to work out the proper response.  She carefully types, hoping to convey the tender ache (she can almost see him waiting except he isn’t anymore)

“yeah”