Pam woke with a start, her heart pounding. She was momentarily frightened before realizing where she was. In Jim’s apartment. On Jim’s couch. Fuck. Her head began to ache and she decided maybe she needed to get a glass of water.

By the time she reached the kitchen, she could do nothing more than collapse into one of Jim’s dining chairs. She hadn’t cried yet, and she couldn’t find the strength to hold back anymore. Before she could think to do otherwise, she was sobbing right in the middle of the kitchen, her tears landing clumsily on the formica tabletop.

She didn’t even know what, or who, she was crying for, which only upset her more. It was mostly just too much to take, and her body needed some sort of outlet for all her pent-up emotion. She wondered briefly it was a poor decision to come here, but she thought again and realized it didn’t really have to do with Jim. This had been a long time coming. At least that’s what she had to tell herself.

When she ran out of energy, she realized she looked like a mess and decided to shower. She didn’t know what time Jim got up, and she was too emotionally wound-up to consider going back to sleep, so she thought might as well get it over with. Maybe it would cleanse her, like some sort of spiritual rebirth. She doubted it; such poetry never seemed to come to fruition in real life.

As she walked up the stairs and past Jim’s bedroom to the bathroom, she was careful not to cry. She realized the sound of the shower risked waking both Jim and Mark, if Mark had ever come home, but she was too distraught to worry too much about that. Jim would understand. Jim would always understand. That thought alone was enough to make her eyes sting again, and she quickly started up the shower to drown her sniffles.

When she stepped under the hot water, the unfamiliarity of the showerhead made her really lose it, and she was surprised she even had it in her to start again. It’s just, she was so used to the way the old showerhead felt; it was just the right amount of pressure to get all the soap out of her hair and off her body, but not enough to be uncomfortable. But, she thought, maybe she had just convinced herself that it was perfect; that every other showerhead just wasn’t right. Because this one, though a little softer, was more even, and it made a nicer pitter-patter when the droplets hit the tile.

She quickly pulled out her shampoo, and laughed bitterly at the thought that she was thinking about showerheads when she’d just made the biggest decision of her entire life. Her head spun again, and she turned up the heat, even though it was already making her skin red.

No matter how hard she scrubbed, she didn’t feel any better. She thought of Macbeth, and all those other stories where one of the characters just can’t wash off the guilt of what they’d done. But Macbeth was about murder, and she hadn’t murdered anyone. She didn’t really have anything to be guilty about, though she certainly felt like she did.

With a sigh, she set down her loofa and turned off the water, feeling fatigued from the heat. She wanted to lie down on the bathroom floor, but that didn’t seem like an appropriate thing to do as a guest. Plus, it looked a little skuzzy. So she sat on the toilet, a towel wrapped tightly around her, and thought to cry. She was surprised to find she didn’t really need to anymore.

After brushing her teeth and putting her hair up, she realized she hadn’t brought anything new to wear. She cringed at the thought of putting on old panties, and decided to forgo them, but she did put on her bra, just in case she ran into Jim or Mark. Unlikely.

She thought to go into her room—or the room she was staying in, whatever—but she saw a light from downstairs and realized she ought to turn it off.

It was from the kitchen, and she nearly toppled over backwards when she saw Jim.

“Woah, careful,” he said with a light chuckle.

“Sorry, you scared me, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here.” She paused, noticing his attire. “You sleep in jeans?”

“No,” he replied, rummaging through the fridge. “I put them on before I came downstairs. The shower woke me up and I felt like a snack.” He pulled out a pack of mixed berry. “Hungry?”

She nodded, and said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I don’t even know what time it is, I just, uh, really needed it.”

“No problem.” When he bent over to find spoons, she saw his t-shirt ride up and came to the immediate realization that he was not wearing underwear, unless they were lower than his jeans, which from her vantage point seemed unlikely. That meant that he probably slept naked, which for some reason made her incredibly uncomfortable. Her anxiety increased when she realized she wasn’t wearing underwear, either. Stupid, she thought, that something like that would be so unnerving.

“You okay, Pam?” he asked, offering her the snack.

“Yeah,” she replied, a little too enthusiastically. She quickly busied herself with the yogurt, trying to stave off further embarrassment. It was useless; she nearly spit out her first bite when she caught sight of Jim.

“What are you doing?”

He stared at her incredulously. “What? Don’t tell me you never lick the lid?”

“Not in front of people!” She stared at him, mouth agape.

“C’mon, Pam, if you don’t that’s just a waste of yogurt,” he countered, and proceeded to finish off his lid to punctuate his point. She couldn’t help her laughter then; he just looked too ridiculous. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry, that’s just… wow, I never thought of you as the yogurt-lid-licking type.” A playful smile remained on her lips, and she reveled in how normal this felt; how easy and good, just like always. She needed some consistency—some distraction.

“The lid is the best part. Especially ice-cream lids.”

She nodded eagerly. "That's true, but I still eat those with a spoon.”

“Naturally; it’s too messy to do it any other way.” She laughed and contended that he was right. “So, didn’t sleep well, I take it?”

She swallowed down a bite of yogurt. “No, I did, I just woke up all of the sudden. It was kind of weird, but then I wasn’t tired anymore, so I took a shower.”

“Ah,” he responded, and she relaxed when she realized he wasn’t going to press the subject. “You planning on going back to bed?”

“I don’t know, I don’t even know what time it is.”

“The microwave says 4:30, but I can never remember if it’s an hour ahead or an hour behind.”

She was momentarily distracted when she noticed just how low his jeans were; she could see a hint of hipbones and just a little hair from beneath his shirt. What the fuck! she thought angrily, and absently blurted out, “You should get on that!”

“What?” he asked, amused.

“Your, uh, microwave clock. You know, the time.” Her cheeks were burning, and she could feel his eyebrows rise even as she stared down at her half-eaten yogurt.

“Yeah, I guess I should.” He walked across the room and glanced and something, adding, “For the record, it’s 5:30.”

“Oh,” she said, trying desperately to think of something to distract them from her mortification. “Then I guess I won’t go to bed.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he replied, “because I make some pretty amazing pancakes.”

“Do they take an hour and a half to make?” She hadn’t even meant it to be witty, but she was glad to have said something to take them back to that non-awkward and non-sexual, friendly sort of place they were before.

“If you want fresh apple sauce with them, they do.”

She gave him a curious look, not convinced he was serious. “I can’t have you making fresh apple sauce and pancakes at 5:30 in the morning. Don’t you want to go back to bed?”

“Nope,” he said with finality, already rummaging through the cupboards. “We’re making pancakes.”

She shrugged and muttered, “Okay”, hoping he couldn’t tell how much her heart swelled.