You must be happy

Karen seemed pleased as the guests began arriving late afternoon Sunday. She’d dressed up, but in a manner Jim could tell was calculated to appear not to involve too much effort. He supposed it was another sort of makeover, one where she was in full control. She wore jeans, but fancy ones; a simple black blouse, but in a silky expensive looking fabric. Her heels were an inch or two higher than usual, her make-up slightly heavier. She looked great of course - she always did - but a little untouchable too. He imagined hugging her would muss her perfectly smooth hair, kissing her would smudge the ruby red lipstick she’d meticulously applied.

She’d tidied up her new apartment too, though it had looked pretty clean to him to begin with. She’d lit candles, fluffed cushions, arranged cocktail napkins and wedges of imported cheese just so. He’d tried to be helpful with setting up, which mostly entailed staying out of the way and making a last minute ice run.

Everyone admired her spare, but tasteful furniture and commented on her travel mementos: the Provencal tablecloth from her college semester abroad in France; the black porcelain Wedgwood box she’d bought in London; the silver-framed photograph snapped at a fancy beach resort of herself with three girlfriends he didn’t recognize, smiling and suntanned with bright pink flowers tucked behind their ears.

Jim could see it written all over Karen’s face as she gratefully accepted her coworkers’ compliments - she wasn’t just the girl who’d followed him from Connecticut anymore; she was someone to reckon with - someone who knew things, who’d been and, more importantly, was going places.

She deserved that recognition. Much as he tried – sometimes the harder he tried – there were many things he knew he withheld from her. But this he could do. So, he did his best imitation of a dutiful boyfriend, smiling proudly, acting like this was exactly where he belonged.

‘You must be happy to have Karen living so nearby,’ Phyllis trilled.

He just nodded his head affably and said nothing. Thankfully, just then the doorbell rang loudly.

‘I should get this,’ he excused himself, backing away toward the front door.

Salvation was short lived. It was Pam.

She stood there bundled in her old puffy white coat, cheeks flushed from the cold January wind. She seemed tentative when she saw him, as if unsure whether to cross the threshold or to beat a hasty retreat. He didn’t know which he wanted her to do either.

‘Hey,’ he began after a frozen moment, awkwardly waving her in and closing the door behind her.

Before she could respond, Karen was at his side. She grasped Jim’s forearm and smiled warmly up at him and then back at Pam. Somehow, that fleeting gesture conveyed more about territory than an elaborate treaty would.

‘Pam! Come in,’ she exclaimed, an almost triumphant note in her welcome.

As Karen greeted her, he saw Pam’s eyes scan the room, taking in the crystal wine glasses neatly lined up on the kitchen counter, the perfect white orchid on an end table, its elegant arc defying gravity. It was only then that he noticed the misshapen clay pot, containing a small bunch of purple flowers, clutched in her hands.

‘Hi, Karen…congratulations on the new place,’ Pam said, hesitating a second before offering her gift with a self-deprecating, almost apologetic laugh. ‘This is for you.’

The pot was glazed a mottled turquoise, overlaid with whimsical black swirls that faded in and out over its uneven surface. Its contours were crude and amateurish, even he could tell that. And yet - it was improbably graceful. He’d never seen anything like it she’d made before – it had been ages since he’d seen any of her work, period – but he instantly knew it was from her hand.

‘Oh,’ Karen gave it a quick once-over as she took it from her. ‘Did you make this?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ Pam replied uncomfortably. Her embarrassment was palpable, an unexpected knife in his own gut. ‘It’s really nothing, just a silly thing…’

She trailed off as Karen’s gaze shifted over Pam’s shoulder across the room.

‘That was so sweet of you. Thanks!’ Karen said brightly, nonchalantly setting the pot down as she hurried over to Gil, who seemed to be appraising her artful spread of cheeses and grapes. ‘Drinks are by the kitchen!’

Jim stood dumbly next to Pam for a moment in the vacuum created by Karen’s abrupt departure. He would have been relieved that she’d flitted away and ended that exchange, if he wasn’t so brutally tongue-tied. Even the standard niceties – can I take your coat; get you a drink –seemed foreign and stilted.

‘Can I put this somewhere?’ Pam finally rescued him, as she began taking off her coat.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he sheepishly reached out to help with suddenly spastic hands.

When he clumsily brushed her arm as it slid out of her sleeve, it was all he could do not to jump back like she’d emitted an electric shock. He took a step away, widening the space between them as much as the wall behind him would allow. His eyes quickly darted over her. She wore everyday jeans and a fitted, thin red turtleneck sweater that he thought he remembered from the Christmas party. She’d looked painfully beautiful then too.

‘Karen has good taste,’ she smiled politely, glancing around again.

‘Yeah, well… I’ll just throw this on the…bed,’ the word stumbled haltingly off his tongue. He felt his face and ears burning as he fled to the bedroom.

When he returned, she was still where he’d left her by the door. He wanted to head in the other direction, chat with Angela about her cat, Kelly about The Hills, Andy …well, with anybody else about anything. But seeing Pam standing there by herself, it was as if he were helpless not to go back to her.

‘So, I’m supposed to be playing bartender,’ he tried to strike a congenial but impersonal note. ‘Can I get you something?’

‘Sure…red wine?’

‘Thank you,’ he smirked half-heartedly.

‘I was afraid you were going to ask for a girly-drink, like Kelly,’ he explained when she looked at him quizzically. ‘Beer and wine are about the extent of my bartending moves.’

‘On second thought, an Appletini does sound good…’

‘Okay,’ he exaggeratedly feigned not hearing her. ‘One red wine coming up.’

She laughed, maybe a little too hard, a little too long. It wasn’t that funny.

Making light small talk with Pam, as if she was just someone he knew casually from work, proved excruciating. They’d chatted a bit more easily lately – about Michael’s kidnapping Jan to Jamaica and Dwight’s latest vision quest; he’d even truly been happy she’d made a point of telling him about winning an art contest the other day (perhaps a little too happy, Karen’s expression had suggested.) But now, stripped of the armor of the office setting, he felt like he was back to square one. He had no bearings.

He just couldn’t figure out how to be around her.

So, he poured her a glass of wine, conveniently remembered some task Karen had asked him to do, and focused on avoiding Pam for the rest of the evening. It wasn’t much of a strategy, but his only other option seemed to be taking her in his arms, professing his undying love and begging her to run away with him.

He hadn’t had much luck with that approach in the past.