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Hey, you've got a lot of nerve to show your face around here.

Hey, you've got a lot of nerve to dredge up all my fears.

Well, I wish I could shake some sense into you and walk out the door.

But your skin is like porcelain.

Yeah, your skin is like porcelain.

Just the other day I felt, I had you by a string.

Just the other day I felt, we could be everything.

But now when I see you, you're somebody else.

In somebody's eyes, and your skin...

Better Than Ezra, Porcelain

She wants a dog.

Something small and cute to ball up in her lap while she watches Arrested Development DVDs and reruns of 24. Or maybe a big dog - it could sleep in the bed, take up the extra space that's starting to swallow her whole.

You should have taken that dominant, male kitten when you had the chance.

As it stands, there are no animals, her cable is on the fritz - there's a tech coming tomorrow - and she can't focus on her art school assignment. It's taunting her from the coffee table.

She takes a sip from her glass, looks at the canvas in defiance.

It dawns on her then. She should paint Jim being Dwight. Or... no. Dwight being Jim.

A giggle bubbles up from her throat and she coughs a little, wine mingling in her chest.

Once upon a time, I'd have been part of the prank.

She decides it's easier to think about him with cabernet in her blood. Not hard to imagine that maybe... maybe he stopped by her desk this morning, tapping his fingers on the edge. Her name on his lips.

It wasn't him. She knows...

But it's kind of okay, because when Dwight was Jim, she could tell him he looked nice without blushing, and she didn't have to leave the room when the words Karen, sexual and girlfriend were used in the same sentence.

Don't think about it. Don't. Think. About. It.

Let it never be said that Dwight is useless.

She sighs, lets her head fall against the back of the couch, feels her eyes slide shut.

For a while, she's been comfortable, floating into nowhere, living in limbo. But now there's something growing.

She feels it... working it way to the surface. Her surface.

She wants to put a face, a name, a meaning, on it, but she can't. She's not sure what to expect, what it'll sound or look like... but she knows its coming.

She takes another sip, sets the glass aside, and picks up her paintbrush.