“When I saw you, I was afraid to meet you..

When I met you, I was afraid to kiss you...

When I kissed you, I was afraid to love you...

Now that I love you, I'm afraid to lose you.”

Roy Croft

It's amazing all the little details she notices now. She notices what time he comes in, how many minutes later Karen arrives, whether or not they've both brought lunch or need to go out and get something, whether they leave together or not, whether they take one car or two.

He has looked tired all week. She knows this even though she really can't see his face much anymore. She can tell just by the slope of his shoulders, the bit of his hair that flips up over the edge of his collar. She can see his spine tense up when Karen comes over to hug him, and immediately remembers how it felt when it was her arms wrapped around him instead.

Seventy-eight days ago.

It's been seventy-eight days since he'd come back. She knows this because one night soon after she’d moved into her apartment she'd begun to keep track in a little red date book. It was one that Michael presented to her like a gift when he got it free from some supplier at a sales conference. It wasn't fancy but she liked the fact that she had a new page for each day, each blank sheet filled with possibilities.

Usually, she doesn't write much, she'd always preferred pictures to words, but each night she takes the time to jot down a thought or two. Just enough to spark a memory. And she knows, without question, that it has been seventy-eight days since she'd written a single sentence that changed every single one of her newly made plans.

Her name is Karen.

When she'd started to write things down she thought that maybe she'd be able to show it to him someday, to explain what she'd been thinking and feeling when she finally figured it out. They'd laugh and he'd stare into her eyes and they'd both say how sorry they were. She'd keep the book in a shoebox in her closet, drag it out every so often whenever he'd forget their anniversary or say something stupid.

Someday. Maybe.

On this particular night she walks into her apartment just after six, throws her keys on the table next to the door and kicks off her shoes. She sneezes for the hundredth or maybe thousandth time that day and makes her way over to the bathroom to grab a tissue, her stockinged feet sliding a bit over the hardwood floor.

She blows her nose, loudly as she makes her way to the kitchen.

Gotta get your REM cycle…going with the whole sleeping……better than not…

So stupid, Pam shakes her head. That's what you call riveting conversation? That's the way you hope he'll notice you again?

So pathetic.

She sniffles and thinks she wants tea, realizing the light green pot is still soaking in the sink. Normally she wouldn't leave it - she's such a neat freak - but she'd been in a rush this morning. Nyquil always makes her oversleep. She runs the water too hot and the lid to the teapot slips from her hand, clattering against the stainless steel and landing with a crash. She shuts her eyes tightly, afraid to see the damage.

She opens one eye, then the other and lets out the breath she'd been holding. A hairline crack runs across the porcelain but it is still in one piece.

Just like me. She thinks with a shake of her head. Just like us.

Carefully, cautiously she rinses the pot and places it gently back in the cupboard. Tea won't be strong enough to get her through tonight anyway.

She yanks the door to the refrigerator open and pulls out a half full bottle of wine. She struggles with pulling the cork, setting the bottle on the floor between her feet as she tugs with all her might. The time it takes to finally get it open frustrates her to no end. She switches the overhead light on, cursing when it flickers and then burns out. It's one of those bulbs she can't change on her own. She needs a ladder or someone…tall. The realization washes over her, feeling more like exhaustion. She’s so tired of just…everything. The tears she's been warding off all day fill her eyes as she pours a healthy dose of wine into her glass.

Choosing wine over tea was supposed to calm her but it is having the opposite effect. Instead her hands shake as she brings the glass to her lips remembering that these are the very same glasses her Aunt Martha had given her almost five years ago, when she had her own bridal shower.

She takes another lengthy sip, ponders for only a split second before she grabs the bottle and moves to the living room. She glances at the unfinished sketch she’d left on the table and winces a bit. She knows she needs to finish before she has to show it in a few weeks. Now that she's seen it she thinks that maybe she should change some of her collection. She suddenly feels the need to paint, something in deep red and bold slashes of black, something dark and almost chaotic.

It would certainly match her mood.

But she doesn't move to her easel or reach for her paints. Instead she sinks onto the couch and closes her eyes. She leans her head back, takes a deep breath. The events of the day are still swirling in her mind.

Jim told me about you guys…

It’s not a big deal…

It was just a kiss…

She takes another long swallow, wondering what would have happened if she’d actually been able to form a coherent sentence when she was in the kitchen with Karen.

Yeah, sure Karen. It was just a kiss. That’s all. It was just a kiss that came with an “I just needed you to know.” Just a kiss that came with a “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” Just a kiss that pretty much made me change my entire life.

Just a kiss…

She knew what it was like to “just kiss” someone. It was “just a kiss” when she was seven and Bobby Hall pulled her behind the monkey bars and smashed his lips against her cheek. That had been "just a kiss.”

It was “just a kiss” when Roy’s cousin Ronnie had a six pack too many at their Super Bowl Party six years ago and grabbed her in the kitchen. A seething look and a shove was all it took to make it seem like nothing had even happened. That was “just a kiss.” No need to get Roy all riled up about something that didn’t even matter.

Her blood begins to boil as she remembers what Jim had said today.

Any real potential there Beesly?

He'd said it like he didn't care in the least. He could move on, that was fine with her but did he have to rub it in? And if he kept having all those "late night talks" with Karen who knew how long they would even last. It would serve him right if he ended up alone and she ended up with some hotshot MBA.

God. I need a boyfriend…

She shivers and refills her glass her hand shaking and splashing wine onto her coffee table. It barely misses her sketch but she can’t make herself move.

She keeps track of things now and she knows just how long it's been. She know exactly how many days between then and now.

She glances at her date book and can't decide what to write down today. Should she just mention Phyllis' shower?  Should she commemorate the fact that a stripper tried to recruit her? The fact that a smarmy guy proudly proclaims he doesn't have syphilis as a way to get a date?

Any or all of those things would work, but only one moment in particular seems to fit.

It was “just a kiss”. Just a kiss that happened after my best friend told me he loved me.

It was “just a kiss”. Just a kiss that happened right after I’d pretty much admitted to my mother that I thought I was in love with him too.

It was “just a kiss”. Just a kiss that happened three weeks before I was supposed to get married.

She takes another gulp of wine and wonders how Roy would have reacted if that was the reason she’d given him instead.

The wedding’s off – but it’s no big deal.

It was “just a kiss”…

Two hundred and sixty-eight days later she suspects she's not the only one who knows that's a lie.