I recognized your number                                                                                                         

It's burned into my brain

When the other shoe finally dropped, it wasn’t because of divine intervention. It wasn’t some dramatic Oprah “ah ha” moment, or any type of magical revelation that hit her over the head as she painted her feelings expertly onto a huge, creamy canvas.   

It was just a Tuesday night. Her first, since Jim’s move away from her, actually, to do anything but cry herself to sleep as soon as she walked in the door. And instead of painting a masterpiece and watching the emotions flow seamlessly onto paper, she was attempting an awkward rough sketch of a dead cockroach she had found in the kitchen on her hunt for a rare (but extremely necessary) glass of wine. It’s definitely dead, but she feels skittish tonight for some reason, like unsettled and anxious, and she keeps imagining that its little legs are moving. It’s very unnerving. Maybe that’s why she jumps and nearly spills her wine all over the sketch when she feels the vibrations of her cell phone against the table.  

Felt my heart beating faster,
Every time it rang  

She knows without looking at the screen that it’s him.   

2 AM? Check.

Monday night? Check.

Dallas Cowboy game? Check. 

She sighs when she finally glances down and sees the letters staring up at her. ROY. Naturally. 4 days until the biggest event in both of their lives and he’s out getting wasted off whatever’s on tap while she sits and home and sketches cockroaches.   

Some things never change 

Since that night in the parking lot, she’s allowed herself to think about this marriage only briefly. Tells herself that things like this aren’t meant to be overanalyzed. Overplanned, maybe (hopefully), because though she barely lets herself acknowledge what this wedding is actually going to mean, she’s spent just about every minute since that night throwing herself into last minute seating arrangements and calling the caterer every other day to make sure they have the orders right (and “everybody likes chicken and fish, Pam” her sister assures her regularly).

Okay, sure, she’s keeping herself busy. But it’s not because of cold feet, like the concerned creases around her mom’s eyes try to make her believe. It’s just pre-wedding jitters. Plus, it's not like he's going to come back and try to sweep her off her feet. Not again, anyway. Not now that he poured his heart out to her in that hot, hideous parking lot and shed that damn tear and kissed her like he already knew he'd never see her again. And now he's states (and timezones?) away, so there's no use hoping for that.

And now her stupid phone is still ringing and she can order as many violinists for this wedding as she wants and it’s not going to change the fact that something is very wrong here. Her fingers shake when she presses “ignore”.  

That's why I didn't answer  

4 days left to plan, to talk, to prepare for this marriage and he’s out with his buddies. Not a care in the world for what her plans for the evening are. It’s just she and her cockroach tonight, chilling. Alone. And what started as a creeping sensation in her chest begins to grow. He should be here at home. With her.  

I bet you're in a bar,
Listening to a country song.
Glass of Johnny Walker Red,
With no one to take you home.
They're probably closing down,
Saying, "No more alcohol."
I bet you're in a bar 

She’s mad when the ringing starts up again and she doesn’t understand why this is happening now, of all times. It’s not like this is the first evening she’s spent without him. It’s not like it’s the last.   

She likes being alone for heaven’s sake.  That’s when she gets to turn on her music and don that paint-smeared shirt that she keeps tucked away in her underwear drawer. The one she was wearing that weekend Roy went to the lake and she saw a gigantic spider and called Jim to come over and kill it, and the one she was wearing when he finally arrived and made some kind of joke like “Pam, what did I tell you about watching Eight Legged Freaks, I kn--” until she opened the door all the way and he stopped short and looked her up and down with a look on his face she couldn’t place. Couldn't place back then, at least.

So, yeah, she likes being alone. Maybe it’s not alone so much as being alone without Roy. Not that she doesn’t like being with him. No. Just, she needs a break sometimes. Not all the time. Whatever. And oh, great, that feeling in her chest? It's now turned into a whisper in her ear, informing her that there is someone she likes to be with...

Jeez. Before she talks herself onto any more ledges tonight she feels herself giving in and finally sighs into the tiny screen, “hello?” 

I don't need to check that message
I know what it says  

“Pam?” the slur comes out too loud and she yanks the phone from her ear quickly.  

“Baby, the game’s over and Kenny went home with this chick and---” a small commotion in the background drowns out his words and she pauses to look at the cockroach lying belly-up on the kitchen tile. Helpless.  

"Baby, I still love you,"
Don't mean nothing when there's whiskey on your breath

“Pammy?” he asks, confused by her silence. She hasn't been listening for at least the last 30 seconds.

“So I’m at Poor Richards, leave now otherwise they’ll close up and I’ll have sit my ass outside till you show" he instructs.

That's the only love I get.
So if you're calling...

No question. No “would you mind?” No “Hey, can I talk to you for a second?” But that’s someone else’s line anyway.  

I bet you're in a bar,
Listening to a country song.
Glass of Johnny Walker Red,
With no one to take you home
They're probably closing down,
Saying, "No more alcohol."
I bet you're in a bar

No, when the other shoe finally dropped, it wasn’t because of divine intervention.   

Instead, it was a moment of decision – her first in a while. It was formed from the drunken rasp of Roy's voice over the phone. From the way the charcoal smudges suited her hand much better than the tiny ring that squeezed way too tight against her finger. From his voice in her head begging her not to settle for this life with this man; a life where she had become little more than a glorified doormat for his every need, a life where love had long since faded into something like toleration and she had taken to biding her time with escapist fare like choosing purple tulle for the church aisles and throwing herself into cockroach renderings.   

Call me crazy but  

“I’m done, Roy”.   

I think maybe 

“What?”  

We’ve had our last call.    

******************************

I bet you're in a bar
It's always the same old song
That Johnny Walker Red,
By now it's almost gone  

She hears from him again four years later, after the birth announcement, on a hot August evening. It’s a stuttering message on her cell-phone filled with “ahs” and “ums” and long, painful pauses. He’s matured, from the sound of how he describes his life (abridged in about 2 minutes) and for a moment she wonders ‘what if?’ But then comes his patented drunk chuckle that seals the “so anyways, congrats, and, uh, you can call me too…anytime” and she knows immediately that life is no different for Roy and she’s overwhelmingly sad for a moment.   

But baby, I won't be there
To catch you when you fall  

Suddenly, his arms wrap around her from behind and she can feel his smile against the back of her neck and nearly everything but this and love and confidence disappears. The phone drops to the floor as she turns around and sighs into his chest, the rhythm of their breathing matching and the hum of his body vibrating through her. 

He knows the story of the “cockroach night” (as she refers to the break-up), and based on the way he’s holding her (forcing her to be strong), he probably heard the entire phone conversation just now too. She’s biting back tears because she wasn’t ready to hear a message like that and she just needs someone to tell her that she’s not a terrible person for letting a man who once was her fiance go like that, for leaving him to fend for himself when he clearly can't. She needs someone to tell her that she made the right choice, that thinking of herself, for once, wasn’t a mistake.   

As usual, he knows exactly what she's thinking, what to say. She’s melted into him so much that she can barely hear his muffled whisper into her ear, “I’m proud of you, Pam. You made the right call.”   

I bet you're in bar
'Cause I'm always your last call