Early

He’s early. The plan had been for Jim to leave the office Friday at four and arrive in Brooklyn by dinnertime. By lunch, he’d been compulsively checking his watch, mentally already out the door. By two, he’d wound up his work for the day (Pam’s absence decreased his need for multiple breaks in inverse proportion to how it increased other, more private, ones.) By three, he’d suddenly remembered a sales call he needed to make. In person. Immediately.

Hell, it was Friday. It was summer. Besides, he had a few hours coming to him. He’d stayed late every night that week, except the one when he’d agreed to play on a friend’s softball team. Anything to fill the time. Hurrying home just meant being one more place she wasn’t. And as it turned out, Celebrity Circus wasn’t so lame it was funny when he watched it alone. It was just lame.

He’d practically flown to New York, car windows wide open, badly-in-need-of-a-cut hair whipping around until it was a cartoon version of itself. He didn’t care. The rush of air felt good and it made the trip seem that much faster. He imagined himself hurtling through space towards her.

Miraculously, he pulls into a parking spot right on DeKalb Avenue, almost directly in front of her building. He checks the sign twice, sure he’s destined to find an insanely expensive ticket on his windshield later. But shockingly, it appears to be legal. All systems are go.

Only problem is Pam’s not expecting him for over an hour yet. He considers calling her anyway, but restrains himself. He knows her – she’ll drop whatever she’s working on and race home. And that’s definitely not what he wants. Okay, he kind of does - but he manages to leave his phone in his pocket anyway.

Instead, he wanders down the street, killing time. The city heat is more oppressive than in Scranton. It feels thick and liquid, like moving through hot viscous soup. After less than a block, his shirt is sticking to his back between his shoulder blades and without looking he knows big ugly stains are forming at his armpits. He catches a glimpse of himself in a storefront window and runs a hand through his hair, attempting to contain the disarray. It’s futile; his fingers are no match for the combined effects of humidity and wind.

As he concedes defeat, he notices he’s standing in front of the tiny vegan take-out place Pam had mentioned yesterday while they were having lunch together - via cell phone. There’s something oddly reverential about the wording of the menu posted, as if it’s describing a religious experience instead of a list of sandwiches. He files that thought away for the next time she tries to convince him (and herself) how tasty her sprouted this, with soy that, on ninety-seven grain bread is.

‘Oh my god. You should see this smoothie – it totally looks like sludge,’ she’d blurted, sounding equally awed and disgusted.

‘Then why are you drinking it?’

‘I don’t know…it’s supposed to be good for you – here, listen to this: builds stamina and a strong immune system. It’s got nutritional yeast, chlorella, spirulina, kelp…’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he interrupted. ‘Did you say this was a beverage, or a science fiction movie?’

‘And apples and ginger and beets and wheat grass…’

‘Whoa…. wait. Beets? Ah, Pam, you can run, but you cannot hide. The Schrutes will stop at nothing less than total world domination. One smoothie at a time.’

‘I am so getting a cheeseburger tomorrow.’

‘That’ll show ‘em.’

He stops in the bodega on the corner and buys a cold six-pack and a New York Times. Back at her building, he plants himself on the stoop, pockets his tie, opens a couple more shirt buttons and rolls his sleeves up further. He pops open a sweaty cool bottle and holds it against the back of his neck for a second, before almost emptying it in one long, thirsty gulp.

He’d driven her here and helped move her into her tiny sublet apartment just the previous weekend. It was in this very spot last Sunday evening that she’d clung to him when they kissed goodbye, saying maybe he should stay another day, maybe she shouldn’t stay at all. But he knew it was just her nerves talking. This belonged to her, not him. He’d almost turned his car back around three times before he even got to the Brooklyn Bridge.

They’ve spoken several times daily since then, so it’s not even like they have much catching up to do. But on the cusp of actually seeing her, these last few minutes seem as excruciatingly static as the muggy air hanging heavily around him. For the first time, he allows himself to give in to the full brunt of missing her, of anticipating weeks of missing her. It’s like biting down on a toothache, so when he stops the relief will seem that much more exquisite.

He skims the Times’ front page, then the sports section, then takes a cursory glance at the television schedule. Watching television is way down the list of things he wants to do with her tonight. It’s been a long, lonely, sleepless, can’t concentrate, fuck I need to touch her week. Thank god it’s about to be over. For now. He wills himself to not think of Sunday.

One down, eleven to go.

*******