Late. The gray sky sporadically luminous with sudden blooms of lightning. The afternoon threat of rain now a downpour that would frighten Noah. Somewhere behind the lid of scruffy ash-colored clouds the sun is setting in the west and leaving the world dark and cold again. A hint of its golden light bleeds through the storm now and then, just enough to remind him that there is another, brighter world elsewhere.

He stands at the conference room window, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. Thinking about women, about love, about how totally fucked his life is now. Wonders if he's doomed to love women who don't love him, or be loved by women he does not love, his whole life. He looks down at the parking lot, sees the sudden red flash of brake lights as Dwight's ancient Trans Am pauses in the exit, the blinker coming on (turning left, going to Angela's, he thinks). The Trans Am rolls out, carrying his nemesis and friend away, home, to some other life. Might be nice to have some other life, he thinks.

Two cars left now, his and hers. He's waiting for her to leave, because he wants to print out some resumes on the office printer (so much better than his crappy cheap one at home) and doesn't want anyone there when he does. Because he has to get out of here. For good, this time.

Thunder rolls, deep-throated and heavy in the distance. Reminds him of being a kid, lying awake at night, counting the seconds after the flash. Waiting with tense anticipation for the sky to growl, fear and excitement fluttering in his stomach. The deepening night has turned the glass in front of him to a mirror. He hardly recognizes himself. The drooping bags under his eyes remind him of too many sleepless nights. He looks older--he looks like his father. At least his hairline isn't receding yet. It's late in the day and he needs a shave, but what the fuck. He's not going to a bar or a nightclub after work, not going over to Karen's place, not ever again. So he can look like a bum and it's nobody's business but his. To hell with it.

"Jim?"

Her voice, soft and tentative, as always nowadays. He's so fucking tired of that note of hesitation. There was a time when she said his name with more confidence, sure of her welcome. He doesn't turn. "Yeah?"

"Staying late?"

"Yeah. I'll lock up." Go away.

"Oh."

Silence, but he doesn't hear her moving away. Lightning flashes, closer now, and he squints against the glare. When darkness returns, he shifts his eyes and sees her reflection. She's still standing in the doorway, one hand on the jamb. Uncertain, halfway gone. As always nowadays.

"Something wrong?" he says neutrally.

"Just...You and Karen?"

She has no right to ask. Doesn't matter, he knows he'll answer anyway. And that she knew he would. "All done," he says tersely.

"Why?"

He turns then, keeping his hands in his pockets so she can't see him making fists. "You have to ask?" He doesn't care that his voice is rough, angry.

She doesn't either. "Yes." Fragile breath of a word, floating.

"You can ask her."

"I'm asking you."

"Afraid of misinterpreting something?" he says, winces immediately. It was supposed to be light irony, comes out as something else. Harsh, he thinks. Does she deserve that? She totally does.He's tired and he hasn't had enough sleep and he just can't carry this any more.

"Pam, forget it, okay? We're over, we're done, we're history." He is deliberately unclear as to which "we" he's talking about.

A noise behind her; she turns her head. A pang goes through him as her curls sweep over her shoulder. That gesture, that profile always gets him.

She looks back at him. "The phone..." she says apologetically. Goes away.

He breathes a sigh of relief, turns back to the window. It's full night out there now, and the black mirror shows him a scowl. His tie is half unknotted, his sleeves pushed up his forearms, his hair askew. A look ten years too young for him. He thinks he should get a haircut before he interviews for a job.

The soft murmur of her voice in the background. So many years he hung on every word. So many things they've said. Never real honesty between them. Avoid, deflect, retreat. Barriers and walls between them. He let his down, once. She never will. He knows that now. He'd have to use a nuke on her defenses, and even if he got through, what would he gain? More denial.

Wind-whipped rain suddenly pounds the glass and he takes an involuntary step backwards. Behind him, the main lights in the bullpen go off, and the glass is no longer a mirror. He can see the silver sheets of falling rain gusting across the parking lot, the street, tinged pinkish orange by the streetlights. Darkness falling around him as she turns out more lights. Good. She's going home.

"Really coming down out there, huh?" she says behind him.

He looks around quickly. He didn't hear her come in. Is she getting sneaky, or is he no longer attuned to her? He doesn't want the answer to either of those questions to be yes. "Like a waterfall," he says. He wants her to go home, and he doesn't.

She rocks back and forth, standing in one place, a little dance she's always done when she's nervous. It brings back memories, so many bitter painful memories. He turns back to the window. He can wait her out. He's the world expert at waiting this woman out.

But she comes up beside him, almost touching his shoulder. Stands next to him, looking out at the rain. Quiet.

They stand like that, just breathing together. He feels all kinds of tense, and yet at the core of him, some kind of peace. Probably because she's there. She always brings him peace, even if it's less now than it used to be. He'll miss that most, he thinks. Water cascades down the glass, the lights outside melt into wavy streams, break up into colored bands.

"I wish...." A whisper, stopped.

He looks down at her, at the top of that head, those curls. "You wish what?" Keeping his voice low. It somehow feels right in this darkness full of the sound of falling water.

She puts a hand on the window, slim fingers against cool glass. "I wish I could wash it all away. Everything."

Everything? He feels a small but sharp pain where his heart used to be. Everything?

"I read a lot these days," she says abruptly.

He sees her hand, millimeters away from the ripple of water on the other side of the glass.

"I don't...I can't sleep very well," she says. "So I read. I've been reading Conrad."

What the hell? Joseph Conrad? What is this? Why isn't she going home? "Okay," he says carefully. Wonders what she is talking about.

"I read Heart of Darkness in October. Nostromo after that. Now I'm reading Lord Jim."

"Any of those would definitely put me to sleep."

"Not...not this last one. It really got to me."

He frowns, trying to remember the plot. "What about it?"

"When Jim deserts the ship, leaving all those innocent people to die...he basically screws up."

"Yeah. So?" She doesn't even have to ask, she already knows he's read it. Typical.

"So he spends the rest of his life trying to make up for his cowardice." Her voice is low, anguished.

"But the people on the ship didn't die." Trying to remember freshman English.

"He still acted like a coward. He's still a pariah. He tries to get back his self-respect under other names." Her voice keeps getting softer and softer.

Where the fuck is she going with this? "Is this a pop quiz, Pam?"

She's looking out at the darkness, her hand on the glass. Still, quiet. Not looking at him. She won't look at him no matter how hard he stares at her. "He wants to wash out his mistake," she says quietly, sadly. "He wants to start over."

Heart slowing to a heavy thud, rolling over in his chest in a really scary way. "Start over?"

She looks up at him then, eyes clear and dry, troubled. Deep. "He wants...he wishes he could go back and do it all differently."

Thunder rumbles and he's not sure if it's outside the window or in his head. "What ... what would he do?" He can't help the rasp in his voice; his throat is closing up.

She turns at the same moment he does, and they're facing one another. Her hand comes off the glass, comes to rest on his shirt. He feels the heat of her palm. Light flickers on her face, filtered through the running water on the windowpane. She looks as if she's standing at the bottom of the sea. "He would be honest," she says. It's almost a whisper. "He would do the right thing."

He's not sure if they're still talking about literature here. "Pam?"

"I..." She stops, mouth open.

He puts his hand over hers, trapping it against his chest -- it's warm and small. He says nothing, waits her out.

She shakes her head, begins to turn away. He feels her pulling her hand out from under his and he presses harder, keeping it. "Pam?"

A brilliant flash of lightning; they both blink, dazzled. Boom of thunder, close and menacing now. The rain on the window sounds like someone throwing gravel at it. "Young hearts are unforgiving..." She looks up at him, looks away, licking her lips nervously. "That's something Stein says to the narrator. I...I read it last night. I can't get it out of my mind."

There is too much in his throat for him to speak -- the ashes of hope, the soot of despair. He forces a cough to free his voice. "Do you need forgiveness, Pam?"

She looks down. He sees the back of her neck, delicate and strong and white. Slowly, the muscles flex once, twice. A nod. He realizes that she cannot bring herself to say the words.

"From ... from me?" A whisper now, barely audible above the rain pelting the glass, the furious howl of the wind.

Another nod.

He gathers her in then, long arms around her, face against his chest where it belongs. Rocks a little, just a little, because joy and awe are just too large in him to be contained.

"Done."