Monday

He stumbles backwards in through the door because she pushes him, she’s always pushing him, and when her hands grip his belt he doesn’t fight it. Why would he? Her moans against his lips are sweet and low, and with his eyes closed he can pretend this is whatever he wants it to be.

She’s good at what she does, Karen, and soon his shirt is off and his slacks are long gone, and when he starts to remove her shirt he feels really into it. Karen, she’s such a *woman*, and her body is perfectly formed, and her skin is lovely, and she’s cultured, too. She is amazing at everything she does. She’s not afraid to jump in with both feet. She’s not afraid to get what she wants.

Still. This hasn’t been right for a long time, if it ever was right. But damn it, he’s been trying—trying to forget the bad things and make room for the good. He wants to jump in with both feet, and he wants this to be about more than sex to him, because h knows what this is to her. She’s been good to stay with him after the Pam thing, and he needs to show his gratitude.

They make it as far as the living room floor, and he’s down, and she’s speaking softly, quickly, pulling down his boxer shorts. He glances at the ceiling, letting out a slow breath, and shut his eyes when he’s in her hands.

“Jesus,” he moans, and she’s doing well, but she’s not one for foreplay—never has been—and she mounts him quickly, one foot on either side of him as she comes down hard and fast. She hisses, and she starts to grind, and God, she’s tight. She laughs a little, smirking, says she’s been exercising.

Jim’s tired of this now, and he grabs her waist, flips her over, takes control. She likes it better on top, likes the way their skin makes contact, likes being above him. But he wants to steer this session, and he lowers his head to the crook of her neck, hiding his face as he groans and holds his breath. It’s not long until he’s close, and he places his hand on either side of her head, and can’t help shouting her name as he comes.

Then she’s stiff underneath him. He thinks he's just made a huge mistake.

She shudders, he can feel it pass from her body up through his, and she’s pushing frantically against his chest, scrambling from underneath him—

“Karen—“

“Pam . . . Pam. . .” Karen stands up, shaky, and he watches her grab her pants and tugs them on, violently. He’s on his feet, unable to say anything. This is the most awkward situation he’s ever been in (and that’s saying something), and he doesn’t know what to do.

He’s never screamed someone else’s name during sex. He just assumed he’d know better.

Like a whirlwind she scours the room for every last article of his clothing, balling it up in her hands, and when she doesn’t see anything else of his, when the muttering just doesn’t seem like enough, her eyes are empty and sad and she forces the lump of clothes at his chest as she cries:

“Fucking Pam, Jim!”

He tries to explain, but he doesn’t try hard.

A few seconds later he’s outside and the front door slams behind him, and he totally doesn’t blame her, but it’s kind of awkward to be out here wearing absolutely nothing.

If he’s honest—and he doesn’t want to be, because that would make him a terrible person—he might be naked on his (certainly now) ex-girlfriend’s doorstep, but he can’t shake the feeling he got from saying Pam’s name as he climaxed. It’s the best sex he’s ever had with Karen, because it’s sex he imagined having with Pam. It may say something horrible, but it says something.

*Maybe it’s time to be honest with myself*, Jim thinks, and the porch lights flick on.

***