What do you do before you go to sleep at night? I want to know. Do you fix yourself a glass of warm milk, or a big cup of ice water? Do you bring your sketchpad into your bed, etching the images that you see before you close your eyes? Or do you turn the lamp on dim and prop your pillows up so that you can read? What do you like to read these days? Can you hear the voices of the characters over the loud bustle of the TV show that he inevitably has on? You probably can. You’ve always been great at drowning out the annoyances. Do you still follow Oprah’s Book Club? I read the one you were talking about before, actually. Picked it up at the library last week and finished it in three days. “A Million Little Pieces,” right? I liked it a lot.
What do you look like when you sleep? I want to know. Does your hair climb down your arms and cover fall over your face? Or do you pile it up into a messy bun? It would be hard to sleep with a bun, though. Unless you sleep on your side, I guess. Do you sleep on your side? Do you put one hand under the pillow and curl your knees up? Do you roll around, or do you find comfort instantly? How long does it take you to fall asleep? Do you think you’d be comfier in the nook of my shoulder? I do.
What do you usually dream about? I want to know. Do you imagine yourself sitting outside a terrace overlooking a beautiful garden in a house that he never knew you wanted? Do you ever have nightmares? Like you’re running, running fast, from something you don’t know. Or to something you don’t know. Do you wake up panting, trying to catch your breath, relieved that it was only a dream? Is he there to comfort you, or does he just grunt and roll over? Or do you dream about just plain old crazy things, like Dwight bringing an octopus into work and harvesting its ink to save profits? Actually, I guess that’s not so crazy. Do you ever dream about me? That would be crazy.
What do you look like when you wake up in the morning? I want to know. Are you as beautiful as you are when you come into work? Do you get morning breath like the rest of us? Sometimes I think you’re too angelic to be plagued by that stuff. I bet you don’t see it. You look in the mirror and roll your eyes, hopping in the shower and then getting out and pat on some makeup or shit that he tells you you need. You never needed it.
What do you wear on weekends? I want to know. Do you stay in your pajamas all day, crawling into the corners of your couch with a blanket and a bowl of cereal for every meal? Are your pajamas the matching cotton kinds, with pink stripes and purple butterflies? Or do you put on sweatpants and a tee shirt, just in case he needs you to make a beer run? I hope you pick up some canvases on your way out, then. And some paint, too.
What do you think about when you’re bored? I want to know. Do you pine for easier times, like when you were a kid and the worst thing that happened was falling off the tire swing? Do you think about things you need to do today? Laundry, grocery shop, cook him dinner. Do you think about work, and stress out about things that are Michael’s problems but seem to have become yours? Do you think about work a lot? I do. But not the work really-- just some of the people. Well okay, not some of the people. Just one of them.
What do you feel like when you sit down at your desk every day? I want to know. Are you tired, frustrated, sad? When Angela says you made copies wrong, does it still set you over the edge? Or are you used to it by now? I don’t ask you to make copies anymore. I don’t even really go by your desk anymore. I can’t. How can you? How can you sit at that desk every day, with a front row view of the single most tragic moment of my life? Is tragic the right word? It sure feels like it. Like a tragic car accident, you don’t want to look as you pass by but you can’t help it. I don’t want to relive your touch, the gentle togetherness of our lips, every moment of every fucking day, but I can’t help it. God, you were so beautiful that night. So tragically beautiful.
What do you think of when you relive that night? I want to know. Do you ever relive it at all? Do you remember those two words you said to me, those two words that did more damage than any of Dwight’s nun chucks, star throwers, or ninja swords could ever do? Those two little words that swirled off your strawberry lips: so lightly, so honestly, so caught off guard. I can’t. They flew like daggers into my heart, and at the moment, I wondered how it was possible that I was even still alive. Did you know what you were doing to me then? Did you know the hold you had on me?
What do you remember about the kiss? I want to know. Do you remember kissing me back? I don’t remember much from that night, and I really don’t remember anything from after that night, but I remember you kissed me back. Why did you do that? Why did you make me think I had a chance, only to rip it away again three minutes later? Why did you let me in? My lips were hungry for so long, starving actually, for you. You gave me a taste and it was sweeter than I had ever imagined. Your lips were softer than anything, and I thought I was going to melt so I grabbed onto you in support. I held you, anchoring my hands to the swell of your hips both to support myself from the sheer magnitude of the situation and to keep you close to me. You pulled away though. Why? Why did you put your hands in mine, your sweet, delicate, hands, only to save them for him? Did you notice how I tried to hold on to your finger? Did you notice how damned hard I tried to keep you?
What do you see in him, anyway? I want to know. You broke up with him before, and I was so proud, but now you’re back together. Does he make you laugh like I do? It seems like he makes you cry more often. Is it because you have a past together? Are you trying to hold on to the memories of high school football games and prom? That wasn’t fair to me. You loved him by circumstance, and you never gave your past up to give your future with me a try. Or are you just back with him because I’m with her? I can’t really explain that one. She’s not you, you know that. You know there is no one else in the world I could possibly love as much as I love you, even if we aren’t or never will be together. But you told me no, and I had to at least try. Being away from you made it easier, but when I came back I knew there was no hope. There’s no getting over you. I was going to break up with her and then I saw you with him again. What’s the point? I thought you wanted to be with me too, and then… I don’t know.
What do you think our hands would look like interlaced? I want to know. Would your fingers lay comfortably in the crevices of mine? Would our palms be sweaty, and if they were, would you bring it up? I sweat when I’m nervous. Would your hand rest gently in mine, or would you be gripping on for dear life? I would be. I held your hand once before, but not tight enough. You slipped away. If I ever get the chance to even touch yours again, I’m not letting go. I’m gonna hold on so tight that you’ll see every vein of my arm muscle pop out, as if I’m weight training or something. Would you hold on forever too?
What do you like when you make love? Have you ever really made love? I don’t think he knows how. It’s not an insult to you, it’s just… I don’t think he loves you like I do. Does he cradle you afterwards, kiss you on the lips, and comb through your hair? Does he listen to what you say; does he do what you like? I would. I wouldn’t even care about myself; I would just want to make you happy. Does he look into your eyes and tell you that you’re the only person for him, that you’re made for him, that he’s made for you. He can’t. It would be a lie. I’m made for you. I know it.
What do you think our children would be like? I want to know. Would they have your hair, your warmth, your artistic talent? Would they have me height and my affinity for sports? I hope they get your nose; no kid should have to live with one like mine. I hope they get most of you, actually. You’re just better than me. You’d be a better parent, too—much more understanding. Would we be good parents? We could take them to the park every Saturday and push them on the swings as we held hands behind them. We could help them with their math homework, I mean, until they get to high school and start calculus. You could bake with them. I’d help them lick the spoon. We could wash the dishes together, walk upstairs and tuck them into bed, and then sneak upstairs and practice making another one. Do you want that? Do you need that like I do?
I need to know if I’ll ever know.
Story Notes:
disclaimer: i do not own the office, no copywright infringement intended
spoilers for casino night and the return
spoilers for casino night and the return
