They both reach over the table for the coffee pot at the same time and as they do, Jim's fingers sort of collide with Pam's knuckles, and they both quickly draw their hands back as if they'd been shocked by static electricity.  He glances to the side and she looks down.

"Go ahead."  He gestures toward the pot. 

She smiles, not showing any teeth, but she still smiles.  "Thanks."

He watches her pour her coffee into the oversized blue mug, staring as she pours in milk and rips open a packet of sugar, then another, then another, and stirs slowly.  The steam from the coffee curls around her face as she takes a sip, her eyes meeting his over the rim of the cup.

He focuses his eyes over her left shoulder, towards the door of the café, wondering why there are hardly any customers for lunchtime on a Saturday.  There's nothing to distract them, nothing to make idle conversation about.

She's studying him, he can feel her eyes, but he doesn't take his gaze away from the door, as if staring at it hard enough could possibly make him float towards it, and leave, leave, leave.

"Don't you want-" She starts to speak, and he's forced to look at her again.

"What?" he asks, a little too quickly.

She points toward the coffee pot, almost reassuring him that it's safe to take, no chance of hands crashing into each other, no touching involved.  Like the coast is clear, and she's telling him to go for it.

"Oh," he laughs nervously.  He takes a hold of the warm metal pot, filling his mug all the way to the top.  He drinks his coffee with just sugar, and as he stirs it with a little plastic stick, he notices the difference between the soft, creamy brown color of her coffee and blackness of his.

He takes his time stirring, because being done means having nothing to do with his hands again.  She's holding hers around her mug, and when he finishes, he does that too.

Their waiter approaches the table.  "Are you ready to order?"

Jim looks at Pam (because now it's okay to, they're just ordering food) and she nods.

He waits while she orders, watching her index finger bend backwards slightly as she jabs it at the menu, vaguely hearing her say, "...and can I please have the soup with that?" And inwardly, he groans, because watching her eat soup might cause him to explode and he's really, really not ready to die yet.

"And for you, sir?"

He says, "I'll just have the chicken Caesar wrap," and hands the waiter his menu.

It's just them again, and still, he won't let himself look at her.  He's not.  He can't.  He stares down at his coffee, and takes a sip.  Plays with the edge of the tablecloth.  Unrolls the napkin from around his silverware.  Looks everywhere but directly across from him.

He's been weak before, he knows it, but he's determined this time.  He refuses to allow his Saturday to turn into game over, you lose, end of story, everybody dies at the end.  It's been getting closer and closer to that in the past few months and he's starting to realize that pulling himself out of it, distancing himself from it is just a fantasy he'd once had.  But even so, he doesn't have to go down in flames today.

And it would be really nice if his cell phone would ring right about now.

"Hey."  Her voice is soft and sweet and wondering.  And like clockwork, he's drawn to it, finding himself meeting her eyes.  "Are you okay?" she asks.  "You're so quiet."

"Oh, yeah," he nods.  "I'm fine.  Just thinking about all of the stuff I have to do today."  He's lying, because he's got nothing to do but sit home and maybe stare at ESPN, or scour iTunes for new songs to download (fast ones that have nothing to do with love). 

Still, she smiles, and he hopes that she's buying it because keeping this up is taking everything he's got.

"Right," she says.  "I know.  I have a lot to do, too.  My closet's like, a wreck, and I'm probably going to get my oil changed later."

"Hmm," he answers, pressing his lips together. 

"Yeah," she breathes.  She glances down at her hands resting on the table, her fingers spread out.  "I realize how boring I just sounded."

"Oh, no," he says, awkwardly going for a joke.  "Oil changes are...great.  Nothing like sitting in the waiting room at Jiffy Lube watching CNN."

"Well, it's all about the suspense."  She's obviously playing along, and he can't decide whether that's good or bad.  "See, you never know when the people who work there are going to call you up.  It's like a guessing game.  Sometimes the person who gets there after you actually gets done before you, so you have to guess who's going to get called up next."

He laughs, a little.  "Yeah.  I usually just read the newspaper or something."

As soon as they stop talking, it happens again.  It comes back, that thing that forces him to look away from her, to stop talking and it's screaming at him, back up!

Their food arrives, and he reminds himself to leave the waiter a huge tip, because that's the second tense silence that's been broken.

Eating creates a welcomed diversion, even though once he takes a bite out of his food, he really no longer wants it.  He pays careful attention to his chicken wrap, watching bits of lettuce and tomato fall onto his plate as he picks it up, pretending that it's far more intriguing than watching her hold her spoon, blowing on her soup.

They're silent for ten minutes, and after they finish their food (or in his case, leaves half of it on the plate in front of him), he allows himself to look at her, and she's not the same that she was ten minutes ago.  She's confused, he knows it.  He wonders if he should make up membership cards for the club.

"Can I ask you a question?"  She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.

He swallows and simply nods, because his answer is actually no, but he can't bring himself to say it.

"Why did you come in here alone?  I mean, why weren't you with someone?"  Her eyes drop to her lap as soon as she's done speaking.

"Um," he looks down too, wondering if he should take a chance on lying again or just quit pretending.  He thinks he knows what she's really asking.  "I don't know," he finally answers.  "I was hungry, and you know, my cook has the day off on Saturdays."

He knows she's not falling for it, but all she says is, "oh."

"What about you?  You were already here, alone, when I got here."

"Yeah.  I have art class on Saturdays until 11:30.  I usually come here afterwards.  I really like the soup," she answers him, and her voice sounds so confident and straightforward that he almost forgets that it's Pam he's talking to.

But he still doesn't tell her the truth.  He doesn't tell her that he'd left a message for Karen, asking her to meet him here, and she'd never shown up.  Or, that she hasn't returned any of his calls.  He leaves out the part about confessing to Karen that he still has feelings for someone else.  For her.  He doesn't mention that part. 

The check comes, and he should be glad, because it's finally over.  He hands the waiter his credit card, and he smiles at Pam.

"You didn't have to do that," she says, shaking her head.  "Really."

"I wanted to.  I mean, you had to put up with me for the past hour, it's the least I can do."

She looks down, sadly.  "Oh.  Yeah."

And for whatever reason, he forces himself to make it okay again, because he knows those lines on her forehead between her eyebrows aren't supposed to be there.  He's so powerless and he can't even take it, but it's a familiar feeling.  He welcomes the warm rush he gets from giving into it.

"Hey," he says, and her eyes meet his.  "Maybe you can make it up to me sometime.  I'll let you buy me lunch.  Only, I will be picking the most expensive restaurant in Scranton.  Just so you know."

She laughs, and he knows it had been totally worth it.  "Oh, of course you will," she says, smiling (with teeth this time).  "But, um, yeah.  We'll definitely have to do that."

When they leave the café, he walks her over to her car and watches as she unlocks the door. 

"Have fun getting your oil changed," he says, hands in his coat pockets, watching as she throws her purse onto the front seat.  She holds onto the rim of the door with her hands.

"I'll try," she nods.

"It's all about the suspense, right?"

She smiles again.  "Right," she says, sitting down.  "Bye, Jim." 

She closes her door, and he walks back to his car, his keys jingling in his coat pocket.