It wasn’t until he opened his mouth that she realized he was pissed off. No, not just pissed off. Angry. Fuming, even. When he’d walked in that morning, she’d given him the standard “Hey Jim” with a slight roll of the eyes (as if to say, back here again, us versus them…only it wasn’t really true anymore). He hadn’t met her eye; just mumbled hello and shook his head slightly as he walked to his desk. She’d thought maybe he was tired. But the back of his neck looked tense all morning. She knew because she was monitoring it. Just out of boredom.

At eleven o’clock, she counted out four quarters from the pile in her top drawer and headed to the break room. She’d just rolled the second quarter into the machine when she heard him clear his throat behind her. She’d hoped he’d follow her in there, she realized. Not for any particular reason. Just because something might happen. A look or a word…an indication. (But she was back with Roy now and it was good…right?)

“Hey.” She gave him a quick, sheepish smile over her shoulder, then rolled in the last two quarters and punched a button. “I just needed something to do. I’m not even hungry. How pathetic is that?” She chuckled and fluttered her hands awkwardly. Why was she so awkward? She bent down to grab her chips.

“Yeah…” His voice sounded strained. He didn’t move at all, just stood there looking at her with his jaw clenched, like he had something to say but didn’t know how to start. It was a challenging look. Like the one he’d given her over the internship (You’ve got to do something sometime, Pam). And I did, she thinks. I did.

“Umm…is everything ok? I mean…you seem kind of upset.” She gave him a questioning look. It was all an act, this casualness. She knew what it was, or at least she thought she did. When Roy had grabbed her hand at the wedding, she’d seen Jim react out of the corner of her eye. And part of her—she had to admit it—part of her had delighted in the crushed look on his face. Just like part of her rejoiced now at the confusion in his eyes, the tension in his stance.

“I just…” He ran his tongue over his lower lip and looked down. Then he looked right up at her. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four--

When they finally came, his words were mumbled. “I just want to use the vending machine.”

He walked past her and his sleeve brushed the bare skin of her arm. Such silly, insignificant contact (Then why do I feel it in my chest; my cheeks; my freaking toes?). It was ridiculously, embarrassingly physical, her reaction to him. She wanted to hurt him for this—for making it impossible for her to feel normal. Impossible for her to recapture the easy resignation she’d felt that morning in Roy’s bed.

She turned on her heel, one hand on the door. “Oh, I just remembered.” The words were casual, but her voice was hard in her own ears. “I don’t need you to give me a ride to my art show anymore.” She met his eyes. “Roy’s going to take me.”