The silence is killing her.
It’s been killing her all day, actually, and the irony is not lost on her that she’s just transitioning from one batch of silence to another, like someone has thrown a hush over her entire life—and that being alone with her own thoughts is driving her nuts. Nor has it eluded her that her frustration is mostly if not entirely her fault. It’s not like anyone forced her to call jinx, or to be “unflinchingly rigid” about the rules (though her sister deserves some of the credit—or blame—for that growing up). No one forced her to be silent here, either. The lack of talking today? She could have fixed it herself.
Lack of talking, though, not lack of sound. This was actually not a particularly silent day, she realizes, for all she thought of it as silent without Jim’s voice, and she finds herself thinking back across all the non-speaking communication he did. The way his eyes would meet hers and conjure up his voice in the back of her head; how he stood up in front of Michael and wept—wept—rather than break the jinx; the little smirks and sounds he would make to compensate for the inability to speak (or rather, she realizes, the choice, the choice to follow her in her ridiculous game and to let her set the rules); the sighs…ok, she doesn’t want to think about Jim’s sighs.
Actually, what she really doesn’t want to think about is her own talking. Because she could see his face shut down when she said that really, really stupid thing. “You can tell me anything.” She meant it, of course. Jim should be able to tell her anything. He’s her best friend. But it was mean to say during a jinx, and even meaner when she can tell there’s something going on behind his face that he can’t tell her, or at least that he hasn’t told her yet. She’s not entirely sure she knows what it is, and she’s afraid of what it might be. Is he sick? is something wrong with his family? Either of these he should have told her by now. Is he…oh god, is he looking for another job? She remembers when they made that fake application for Dwight and she told him he should apply for the job at Cumberland…and how she’d told him at the end of the day that if he ever left she’d blow her brains out.
Oh my god, Jim might be looking for another job. That would explain why he’s been slightly veiled the last couple of days. That might explain…a lot of things, actually. How jumpy he’s been. Why he won’t be coming to her wedding: maybe that Australia trip is a cover for an interview? Because she can’t imagine why he’d have made plans for her big day otherwise. Especially to go to Australia, which she can’t imagine he’d actually do. Be interested in, yes. Fly to? On the weekend of his best friend’s wedding? No. No way. But a job interview? Yeah, that might not be movable. That might be something they’d have to schedule far out in advance—especially for the types of jobs Jim ought to be looking at. He’s the best; he should be looking at like, executive jobs and stuff like that. They do big dog-and-pony shows for those, don’t they? And if Jim’s looking for a new job, and she’s already told him she’d be heartbroken if he did…yeah, that would fit with him not being able to tell her anything. And it…it would suck. But they’d get through it. She has his IM name and his cell number, after all. There’s no way Jim Halpert is getting out of being her best friend. Even if she won’t see him every day.
Speaking of every day…even this thinking about Jim, she admits to herself with a little silent sigh, is just a distraction from what’s really bothering her right now. Because apparently her fiancé hasn’t noticed that today is not like every day. After the day of jinx with Jim, she had the brilliant idea (she would roll her eyes at herself but really, what’s the point, she knows it was stupid) to see how long she could do it herself: how long after work she could go without saying anything out loud.
And the answer appears to be forever.
Roy’s not talking to her. She doesn’t think he’s actively avoiding her or snubbing her or anything. He’s just sitting on the couch with a beer occasionally grunting and yelling incoherently at the Sixers. She hadn’t really realized before today how much of their interaction she had to initiate: how his daily routine barely involves her unless she makes it. She’s already made dinner and they ate in silence, and as far as she could tell he didn’t even notice. He wolfed it down and was back on the couch, with a mumbled something that could have been “love ya” and could have been a burp in between. He didn’t ask her about her day, and when she didn’t ask him he didn’t volunteer. It’s just…quiet. Not silent, because the TV is on and Roy’s not actually being all that quiet over in the living room, but no conversation. No actual talking.
So much less communication than there was in the deliberate silence this morning and afternoon. She couldn’t catch Roy’s eye if she wanted to, wouldn’t know how to get him to waggle his eyebrows or pinch his nose to communicate without words. He’s just there. Taking up the living room—so much so that when she tried to sit in there and see if he’d notice her not talking, his sheer focus on the TV actually drove her out here into the kitchen, where she’s doodling on a memo pad and drinking tea.
The doodle is of a pair of hands, pinching the bridge of a vaguely sketched out nose.
She already knows, without admitting anything, that she’s not going to draw in the eyes.
