The warm, hazy sunlight drifts in through the thin curtains, warming her face as she snuggles a little deeper into the bed, pulling the thick, warm comforter a little more tightly around herself as she hangs on to the last remnants of sleep. She refuses to open her eyes. She knows that if she does she will wake up. Really wake up. And that is something she just doesn’t want to happen. She knows if this happens she won’t ever get back to sleep and she’s not sure it’s quite late enough to justify getting up when she has nowhere to be. On warm, sunny mornings like this one, mornings that hint at the promise of a beautiful day, she likes nothing more than to lie in bed and drift in and out of sleep. It’s not something she gets to do often, but when she does, she can’t imagine wanting to do anything else.

The content grin slowly making its way across her face suddenly turns into a frown as the events of the previous night come rushing back to her. She’s suddenly hit with an unwelcome barrage of angry words and even angrier faces.

The night had started out with promise. She and Roy had planned on spending the night at home, just relaxing and catching up on all the movies they hadn’t had time to watch yet. She’d reluctantly allowed him to meet up with his buddies for an hour or so while she ran some errands and made a trip to the video store to pick up some DVDs for their night.

She realizes now that she should have known to ignore his promise to be home early. After all, it was the third time this week that he’d met up with the guys, and the first two times he’d stumbled in well after midnight. But this time she’d been naïve enough to believe that he had actually meant it. She’d wanted to believe she was more important to him than his friends.

What a joke. She’d spent the night staring at the pile of DVDs, getting more and more angry with each minute that ticked by.

As soon as he’d fallen through the door a little after two in the morning, she’d started yelling. Loud, angry words that did nothing to wipe the drunken, satisfied smile from his face. The longer he stared blankly at her, the louder she got. Pam has never been an angry person, or a yeller. But every so often, whenever she feels particularly slighted, she lets it go, lets all of her anger flow from her lips, not bothering to control the words the anger forms, not caring what she says. All that matters, at times like that, is that she was says something. Anything.

She wasn't even angry, really. The fact that he had broken his promise to her stung, yes. Yes, she’d been upset that he had stood her up for their ‘date.’ But that wasn’t the point. What really bothered her was that he had given her so little consideration. It had seemed to her then, and still does, now, if she’s honest, that he no longer seemed to think she deserved his consideration, no longer thought she was worth it to try.

The memory of the previous night wiping away any contentment she may have felt at the thought of spending the morning in bed, she gives in to wakefulness, thrusting her arms out in a stretch, not bothering to open her eyes in case she ends up smacking Roy in the face. Accidentally.

Her hand meets his pillow and she notices with just the smallest amount of shock that it’s still slightly warm, the sheets rumpled with sleep. But no Roy.

She knows it’s still early and that he, in all ten years she’s known him, has not once gotten out of bed before noon on a Saturday, but the fact that he’s not there is not enough to surprise her. She remembers throwing his pillow at him as she stormed into the bedroom last night, telling him he could sleep on the couch if he was so happy not spending time with her. But, even in the midst of her rage, she’d known he would most likely come sneaking into their bedroom after she was asleep. He almost always did.

What strikes her as odd is that the pillow is there and he is not. If he hadn’t snuck into the bed, then is pillow should still be with him on the couch. Because he is most definitely still asleep. Roy has always been, if nothing else, a sound and deep sleeper.

She buries her face in his pillow, wishing that, just once, she could feel as though he actually cared that they rarely spent time together, just the two of them.

She inhales deeply and is rewarded with the faint, lingering scent of musky aftershave and her favorite cologne. A faint smile once again makes its way across her face as she fills her senses with this scent. She loves this smell. It’s at once soothing and exciting. Clean and crisp and yet still smells masculine in that delicious way that only he can.

She inhales again and freezes.

Something isn’t right.

She recognizes this smell. Of course she does. Although she would never admit it, it’s probably her favorite scent in the whole world. It’s familiar and comforting. She knows it in a way one can only know something after a lifetime of exposure. It conjures some of the most pleasant memories she possesses.

The only problem is that it’s not Roy’s scent. This is not his aftershave and he doesn’t even wear cologne. Noticeably absent is the stale smoke and beer scent that usually accompanies a night with his friends.

This scent is definitely not Roy’s.

And it’s a scent she misses. She hasn’t seen him in weeks, hasn’t spoken to him or laughed with him or smiled at his pranks. And despite her confusion, despite the fact that absolutely nothing is making any sense, all she can think about is the last time she was this close to this scent. Images of cards and blues dresses and dimly lit offices fill her mind. The feel of soft, new yet familiar lips on hers and the texture of silky hair running through her fingers invade her memory in the second before she remembers that she should not be smelling this smell.

So engrossed in her confusion and memories she almost doesn’t hear the footsteps in the hallway. The sound of a creaking floor as bare feet make their way across a bare hardwood floor invades her mind, a slight slapping sound accompanying each step. The sound is familiar, though she can’t figure out why. Her floors are carpeted.

 “Morning.” 

She starts at the deep, rumbling voice that breaks through her thoughts. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears and her breath catches in her throat as her eyes fly open.

She is met with the sight of a wide, lazy grin and floppy, sleep-tousled hair. A tall, lanky frame, clad only in blue plaid pajama bottoms leans against the wall, clutching two mugs. He sips from the dark green one, which she knows contains coffee. The other mug, white, hand-painted with crude flowers and some words written in a childish scrawl, has the string from a teabag hanging over the side. He extends it towards her, offering the tea that is clearly meant for her.

When she finally finds her voice, it comes out strangled, almost as though she is choking. Her throat is tight and she’s not sure she can breathe when she finally gets out the one syllable she is capable of uttering.