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Jim POV
The ductwork on the ceiling of the reception hall has big ventilation tubes. Big enough for a man. Or for a Shrute. Perfect. Now, a subtle way to tip off Dwight that Michael is trying to sneak back in through the ventilation system.
I glance back down at Karen to make sure she didn’t see me staring at the ceiling, but all I can see is her shiny hair because her face is tipped down, nearly resting against my chest. That’s good. You don’t want to look bored when slow dancing with a woman, even if the dancing only takes about two brain cells to keep up. Don’t get me wrong, I like slow dancing. I even (and I will take this with me to the grave) like weddings. The couple is always happy and the wedding is like a validation that everything has worked out. Plus, the bride always has a certain look to her. Not a glow, but a hopeful, vulnerable sort of pride. She knows she’s loved. Its cute- so shoot me! But receptions are definitely not as fun.
Thankfully, Michael and Dwight are here to act as pawns in my usual game of keep-Jim-entertained. Maybe I can get Pam to tell him- no, bad plan. Ask Karen instead. Its too late though, I already looked up to catch Pam’s eye. Despite the crowded room, I didn’t have to look around for her because – pitiful much?- I always know where she is. It’s like an automatic GPS implanted in the base of my skull and the signal never turns off.
Pam’s already watching me, and in a way that instantly captures my full attention, even the two brain cells I need to keep slow dancing. Karen pulls back a bit as I stop moving and I rip those two brain cells away from Pam and start swaying again. Karen relaxes.
The corners of Pam’s mouth show those tiny, downward creases. It’s not a frown, because she wouldn’t want anyone to know she’s sad. Still, it’s as clear as a street sign to me, even from across the dimly lit room. She glances down, then back up at me, and then she’s out of her chair so fast it almost looks involuntary. I know that walk, too. That’s the as-fast-as-I-can-without-seeming-upset walk. The one she uses to escape because Pam hates anyone to see her get emotional.
Not my problem. Not mine.
But I’m her friend, and no friend would ignore her when she looked that sad. I’m two steps gone, heading away from Karen even as I’m thinking this. I turn back.
“I just saw Michael messing with the latch on one of the windows. I’m going to rat him out to Dwight,” I tell her, trying for a light tone. She looks a little irritated, but then presses her lips together in a rueful smile and shrugs, heading off the dance floor toward the tables. I follow Pam.
When I get out to the hall, she’s nowhere in sight, but I know she wouldn’t go out the main entrance. Too much chance of running into a crowd of smokers, or people leaving the reception. I investigate the other direction and find a side entrance. The door is glass and I stay back around the corner and out of sight. Yeah, I could be her friend again, but will that really do any good?
Don’t be stupid, Halpert. If you go out there, you might as well ask Jan for the number of her shrink, Dr. Specializing-in-Self-Destruction. You don’t want to be her friend. It hurts too much and you knew coming back here that you’d have to stay away. That it wouldn’t be easy. That sooner or later, you’d be standing here. Well, maybe not exactly here, around the corner like a stalker having the angel-vs-devil conscience cage match. But something similar.
She’s probably sad because it’s a wedding and she misses Roy. Do you want to sign up to play sympathetic ear to that again? Be selfish, be smart. Don’t ease her pain at the expense of your own. Not anymore.
The problem is, I can read Pam. I mean really read her. I can tell 15 minutes in advance when she’ll go on break, because she starts tilting her head back a little, like she’s pulling against the gravity of her work station, fighting a yawn or a serious eye roll. Now that my back is to her, and I don’t let myself look over there anymore, I can still tell. When she does it, her chair gives this tiny, certain kind of squeak.
So I know the look in her eye wasn’t just sadness, and it wasn’t about Roy. I think I know exactly what it was, but I also took Psych 101 in college. So I know that I’m not objective. I see what I want to see. In her smile, I see flirtation, in the way she tilts her shoulders toward mine, then turns away again, I see attraction. I give myself hope. I can’t help it. That’s why I left Scranton; so I couldn’t see that hope anymore. So chasing it again is exactly what I shouldn’t be doing.
I’m not stupid, so I know exactly how stupid I’m being when I turn the corner and push through the glass doors.
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© 2006-2023 More Than That | Skin created by Kali