This is hers, but it’s painful.

Her feet ache. Her lungs burn. There’s a kink in her side. But she keeps running.

She bought a copy of Allure magazine when she did her Single Person grocery shopping one week. She read it cover to cover and learned how to buy a sexy bra for your body type, styling your hair for sexy summer waves, and how exercise helps after a breakup.

The next day she went to the mall and bought new running sneakers, a curling iron, and a black lacy bra.

She spent the last three weeks waiting every day until the office is mostly cleared and then she does the same thing. She dips into the restroom, changes clothes, and feels a determined satisfaction as she snaps her laces into a tight knot.

Then, she runs. She clips on her iPod shuffle, tucks the office key into the hidden pocket of her shorts, and she runs. Her earbuds snuggled in, she blares her playlist as loud as she likes with music that Roy always hated. Beyonce and Gwen Stefani and Missy Elliott. Music that makes her feel free and tough and wild and sexy. She breathes heavy and her legs shake and she runs.

Every day she goes a little faster and a little further than the day before; she isn’t in shape enough to run miles and miles, but she runs. She goes one more block than yesterday or until the end of the next song, whatever little bit of progress she can make before making a turn and running back the way she came.

She wants to stop and take in enough air and rest, but she tells herself she doesn’t deserve a break until she gets back. She runs.

She rounds the corner into the Scranton Business Park lot and drops her body with a sigh of exhaustion and gratitude to sit on the curb. She leans against the hedge and steeples her knees so her arms have a place to relax. She tells herself she is just catching her breath, her heaving chest as evidence.

Sometimes she glances at the warehouse door and wonders what Roy is doing. She wonders if he’s drinking as much as Darryl alluded to the other day. She thinks she will always worry about Roy a little bit. She wishes Time would take her back a few years when she started having doubts that they should get married or be together at all so that she could follow her gut and end it.

Sometimes she looks at the front doors where she pushes in and out of work every day. She thinks about grilled cheese sandwiches and shared earbuds and late nights. She remembers that night often. She wishes Time would take her back to that next morning so that she can smile and agree that swaying is, in fact, dancing and it was a nice date.  

Sometimes she stares at a part of the parking lot a few feet from her and she thinks about Jim. She wonders what he is doing and why he hasn’t called and why she hasn’t called. She thinks about her favorite dress. She thinks about that tear he wiped away. She thinks about ‘more than that’ and ‘I’m in love with you’ until the words don’t make sense. She wishes Time would take her back to that night so that she could replace ‘what’ with ‘I love you, too’ and make the rest of those words disappear.

But Time cackles and ironically says, “I can’t.”

She usually gives herself a minute or two on the curb to be overly reflective and full of self-loathing. A glance at her watch says that today she’s taken five minutes. She pushes herself up on wobbly legs, notes the only car in the lot is hers, and slowly walks up the stairs to the office.

In the bathroom, she finally cries. It’s quiet and pitiful. Wailing, sorrowful, cathartic tears are for the shower. Bitter, angry tears are for the car. Sniffling, breathy tears happen in moments like this when her fucking emotions take over at work or in the grocery store or when she’s buying coffee. She sits on the hideous couch in the women’s bathroom and holds her face in her hands, telling herself this must stop. She takes deep breaths until it finally does.

She’s almost reached Jim’s desk—Ryan’s desk, it is Ryan’s desk—when she hears him. She inhales, cursing him for returning to the office after a client meeting.

“Pam? Are you still here?”

Quickly gathering her duffel bag and purse, she feels confident she can slip out with a polite but short, “Goodnight, Michael.”

“Pam? Are you,” he pauses, hesitantly continues, “were you crying?”

She glances at her reflection in the side window of Michael’s office. She doesn’t look tough or determined like she felt while running. Hair frizzing from her ponytail, runny nose, wet lashes, her mouth is twitching, tears forming to betray her again, she feels pathetic.

Michael’s voice is just a bit closer. “Is it about Roy? Or, um, Jim?”

The sound from the back of her throat is her tell. It’s soft, but she doesn’t know if it’s a laugh or a cry or a choke. She turns cautiously and takes a steadying breath.

Michael, his face gentle and kind, tips his head sympathetically as though he can feel her desperation. He reminds her of a sweet meerkat, softly blinking, harmless. Releasing a long exhale, he makes his way to the couch and slowly sits at one end.

Reluctantly, she joins him, perching at the opposite side with her duffel bag and purse as a barrier between them. She is afraid Michael might try to hug her in a moment of genuine consolation. She is afraid she might let him.

They stare blankly into the bullpen. She directs her eyes on the wheel of Jim’s chair—Ryan’s chair, it is Ryan’s chair—because she doesn’t trust herself to look anywhere else.

Michael interrupts the silence. “I didn’t know you are a runner? I’ve seen you out there a couple of times.” His tone is on par with the enthusiasm he would have if he realized they shared a birthday.

I’m not a runner. I was running, she thinks. She feels those creases form between her eyebrows, the ones her mother says she will regret, but she doesn’t know how to answer him. She nods a couple of times.

The thought crosses her mind that she can just stand and go. Instead, she tucks her right foot under her left thigh and rests her head on her right fist, her arm anchored to the back of the couch. Michael mirrors her posture and she can’t help but smile a little because it’s clearly one of those moments where he looks equally ridiculous and endearing.

“Do you enjoy it?” When she doesn’t answer, unsure of what he’s asking, he glances down at her duffel bag. “Running?”

A dry laugh followed by an emphatic shake of her head changes his expression. She tugs at her earlobe, glances to the wheel of Ryan’s chair and back to Michael. Why does his nose look bigger when he’s confused, is weird to think about, but it’s where her mind goes.

“Why do you do it then?”

Penance, is the first thing that pops into her mind. For fuck’s sake, get over yourself, Beesly.  She feels her lips purse to the left in a way that lifts her cheek, hoping that tells him enough.

“Pam, you should be doing something you love. Something that makes you happy.”

She shrugs lightly and offers him a small smile. She’s off the clock and too tired to give him any more than that. Plus she’s starting to get a little hungry.

“Pam, I mean it.” Michael leans a fraction closer, dips his head a little further into his fist, still comically matching her body language. “Pam,” he emphasizes, likely to underscore the importance of what he is about to say, “you should be doing something that makes you happy. Especially when you’re trying to figure out…” His words fall while his hand gestures in the air toward the bullpen. In a rare moment of self-awareness, he speaks slowly, clearly searching for the right words. “You’ve been through a lot lately. Roy. Jim. Moving. Researching the top twenty magic shops in the country. That would take an emotional toll on anyone.”

Michael puts both legs in front of him and crosses his arms. He shakes the foot he was sitting on, briefly lamenting how it’s fallen asleep. Staring at a spot on the floor, he begins again, his tone heartfelt but serious, “What I’m saying is, you should be doing something that brings you joy. It’s like me and comedy. You know I’m not the best comedian out there.” He says this as he shoots a conspiratorial glance at her accompanied by an apologetic shrug. “There’s Robin Williams.” His eyebrows knit in concentration. “Chris Rock.” His lips move silently the same way they do when he tries to add numbers in his head. “I can’t think of anyone else off the top of my head, but the point is, I’m not the best, but I’m certainly not the worst. Whew! You should see this guy in my improv class, Bill. Ugh. Pam, he’s awful. The worst. He always—”

He stops himself by briefly pinching the bridge of his nose then smiles at her gently, and continues in his former, calmer, manner. “I’m not the best comedian, and I’m certainly not the worst—” she smiles reassuringly as he glances at her for approval, “—but I just love it so much. It brings me joy. Ya’ know when the boss is on my ass or I have women problems or no one can find a David Blaine collector’s poster for me on eBay…” Michael somberly shakes his head, but doesn’t seem to notice her glaring at him, recalling the afternoon he had the entire office searching online for a commemorative David Blaine poster, bids in the thousands, but he only wanted to pay $50. “When those things happen, I have the joy of comedy. I work on my routine, my characters. And, I just know, in that moment, everything will be okay.”

Michael leans forward on his knees, clasps his hands and glances at her over his shoulder. It sounds like a plea when he says, “Pam, do you have something like that? Something that brings you joy?”

Fingers still that have been running mindlessly over the zipper of her duffel bag. The wheels on Ryan’s chair don’t move. Buttermints have replaced Jelly Bellys in her candy dish.

“Painting.” She has to clear her throat; she hasn’t spoken in a bit and her tears have left her sniffling. “Art. Painting, mostly, I guess.”

“That’s right!” She smiles at his enthusiasm. “You want to be an artist designer? Graphic painter?”

“Graphic designer,” she supplies, dipping her head, her smile wider than she expected it to be.

“Yes! Yes. That’s what you should be doing. Graphic designing. Painting. Art. Pam, you should be doing those things that bring you joy.” Michael leans back triumphantly, folds his arms across his chest, and returns to staring at the spot on the floor. He shrugs, casually mentions, “Ya know, I take improv classes at the community college. There are always fliers for all kinds of art classes. You should look at that or something.”

The silence lets them both get lost in their thoughts.

She contemplates the cost of art classes, considers what she would paint. A quick glance at Ryan’s desk—when did she start remembering it is Ryan’s desk?—and she thinks of how many shades of green paint she has at home. She imagines painting green eyes. Shiny emerald when lost in the hysterics of a prank. Dull sage when bored. Deep pine when in pain.

The silence lets them stay lost in their thoughts.

Michael is still in his trance as he gravely advises, “But maybe you should keep running, too. You’re gonna want a smoking hot body when you start dating again."