“The best sex of her life?” Really? I mean, technically, sure, he’d given her the best sex of her life at some point. He’d given her the only sex of her life. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t enjoy sex. But…really? How fucking romantic, Roy. And how cheap—especially because she knew (knew) it wasn’t like he was actually going to put any extra effort into it. If he’d gone to Adam & Eve and bought them something, or even if she could be sure he was going to make a special effort: oil, flowers, lube, something…then she’d believe. Or maybe at least then she wouldn’t feel this overpowering urge to roll her eyes and push him away.

Because, seriously? She’d just spent an entire workday watching Phyllis Lapin get utterly inundated with gifts. Literally, she thought, if you put Phyllis in a bathtub and poured the presents over her, she’d drown in them. Not that she wanted to put Phyllis in a bathtub and murder her, but the thought became vaguely tempting after she lost count of the number of times she’d had to sign for a package.

If she complained to Roy about it though, she knew what he’d say. First, he’d snigger about her signing for his package. Then he’d remind her that “we agreed Valentine’s Day wasn’t about the gifts, Pammy,” and “it’s the thought that counts, right?” Which it was. It was totally the thought that counted, Roy, but only if you actually put some thought into it. Leering into her face and telling her she’d have the best sex of her life like having sex with her was some kind of gift he gave her, not a mutually pleasurable and desirable act, was not the thought, and (she sneered inwardly) if it were? Roy would not like it to count. Because ledgers have credits and debits on them, and she knew which category that particular set of thoughts belonged in.

Sometimes she wondered how it had come to this. How she’d ended up with a fiancé who thought that waggling innuendo was a substitute for consideration. And to top it off she hadn’t even gotten to exchange a proper Happy Valentine’s Day with Jim, which meant the little card with the caricature of Dwight (saying “Hammy Valentine’s Day”: she’d re-drawn the original, “Valentine’s Day is a waste of company time, but I guess I’d rather waste it with you” when Dwight gave her that perfect opening with the line about ham as a romantic gift) had stayed in the drawer of her desk, and whatever Jim had for her (which had never failed to surprise and please her) also remained a mystery.

Why couldn’t Roy see that that’s all she wanted? She meant it when she said the thought counted, and that Valentine’s Day wasn’t about the gifts. But that didn’t mean you didn’t get someone something. You just…didn’t need to blare it out like Phyllis and Bob Vance, or prove your manhood (or womanhood, she supposed) with a single giant present like her friend Isabel’s boyfriend had tried to do with his disastrous giant FAO Schwartz bear present (honestly—who didn’t know Izzy was afraid of bears?). You just…cared. She’d left Roy’s card and present on the dashboard of the truck, and sure, it was just a box of fishing lures and a little doggerel about how he’d already caught her heart, but it was specific to him and she’d planned it in advance. That was really all it took. Why couldn’t he see that?

Well, right now he couldn’t see it because he was sitting on the couch drinking a beer while she prepared a romantic dinner for the two of them. Not for the first time she was inclined to just….stop trying so hard. To maybe just slop some red sauce on some pasta and not even bother to pop garlic bread in the oven. To let him get back to the game that was just so important that it had to be on on Valentine’s Day. Why was she slaving over making sure she made his mom’s lasagna perfectly while he was sitting there like a potato in the dirt? Why were all the little romantic touches she’d put out (a candle, an actual tablecloth, wine) still sharing space with the bottlecaps and Tupperware he’d left strewn about? Sure, she usually cleaned up for dinner, but why didn’t he take at least some of the responsibility?

She peered out into the living room.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch.

Really? He couldn’t even keep himself upright and awake for long enough for her to make this lasagna—or for him to eat it—or for him to produce the one thing he promised her for Valentine’s Day? Was this just her life now? A choice between cold food eaten whenever Roy happened to decide to wake up (because God help her if she woke him up, he’d be in an awful mood all evening: “I work hard, Pammy, I deserve my rest!” as if she didn’t work hard too) and hot food eaten alone with the sorrow of realizing she made a special meal for him that he didn’t care enough to eat? A promise of life-altering (or at least life-defining) sex and a reality of drunken snoring?

She shoved the lasagna into the fridge and pulled another can of tomato sauce out of the cupboard. The lasagna would keep. Tonight was going to be easy, and simple, and at least she wouldn’t have wasted her effort. As she took down the candles and folded the tablecloth it struck her: was this what giving up looked like?

The beep of the microwave that had finished heating the tomato sauce broke her out of her reverie—and Roy out of his slumber, as she could tell by the sudden yelling from the living room.

“Hey, Pammy, mind if we eat in here?” His voice sounded hoarse with sleep. “There’s, like, four minutes left in the game.”

“Sure, Roy,” she sighed, glad now that she’d already packed up the table. “Be there in a second.”

He didn’t even bother to thank her.