The yoghurt lid is metallic and it winks at him in the fluorescent lights. He sees writing, sees Pam’s name, sees the letters she crafted in purple ink on a memo sheet. He sees the grooves in the yoghurt lid, sees the paper clips it was once attached to, sees paper doves being drawn across the office on a string. He sees Pam. He sees Karen. He sees David across the desk from him, asking him a question.

“What’s that?”

He doesn’t know. His ears are ringing. He can feel his heartbeat all over his body. He thinks he remembers a question about fitting in, about New York.

“Oh, uh, great, you know? I just, um, I really appreciate the buildings, and, uh, the people.” He is rambling. He doesn’t know what he is saying. He sees Pam. He sees her curls and her eyes and her smile. He sees her writing out this memo and slipping it into his photocopies. “And, um, there’s just an energy that New York has.” He sees her for the last time, at her desk, on the phone, taking a message. He sees her look up and see him and look away again. He sees her ear as she turns and he turns and he sees the door in front of him. “Not to mention they have places that are open past 8, so that’s a bonus...”

He is surprised David can’t hear his heartbeat from across the desk. He is opening his mouth to ask another question. He tries to pay attention this time.

“You’ve been in the Scranton branch a long time. What have you liked most about that place?”

He sees the purple ink and the metallic lid and the paper clip holding them together. He hears words directed toward him, hears the silence that follows. Says the first thing that he can think of. Says it in a way that means absolutely nothing at all.

“The friendships.”

“Okay.” David is surprised but not unimpressed. He doesn’t linger on the point, doesn’t turn it over in his mind the way the interviewee is on the other side of the desk. He continues and he doesn’t care. “Well, we want the person who takes this position to be in it for the long haul. So, long haul. Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

He wishes he didn’t, but he sees himself in Scranton. He wishes he didn’t, but he sees himself at the same desk he has occupied for too many years, wearing the same combination of shirt and tie that he has worn too many times, making the same sales he has spent too much time on. He wishes he didn’t, but he sees her, too, in the same sweater he left her in, with the same barrette the only feature in her hair, with the same smile and the same hands and the same smell and the same eyes. And he wishes he didn’t, but he sees her with a ring, his ring, and that is the only thing that has changed. He wishes he didn’t, but he sees himself with her.

“I see myself...” David is expectant, waiting. He knows what he wants to say, but he can’t get the words out. He sees himself in Scranton. There is no thought of New York, of a promotion and an office and higher pay. He thinks only now of the things he could do and the places he could go if he could only see himself in New York. But he can’t.

“I see myself in Scranton.” And he is relieved and terrified and surprised it took him so long to say it. There is nothing left to say. There is nothing left to hide.

David frowns. He is confused. Surprised. Taken aback. He thinks for a moment. Weighs his words carefully.

“Why are you here, Jim?” He finally asks. He is not angry. He is genuinely curious.

“I don’t know.” He doesn’t weigh his words. He no longer needs to think, to avoid saying the wrong thing. The wrong thing has already been said. Or, he supposes, everything he has said has been the wrong thing until now. “I think I need to withdraw from consideration.”

“I can’t convince you to reconsider?” He asks like he already knows the answer.

“I know where I need to be, and it isn’t in New York.”

He stands, extends his hand across the desk. David stands also, grasps his hand and shakes it twice. “I’m sorry to see you go,” he says, and the sentiment is sincere.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” And he is sorry. But mostly he is relieved. And anxious about what inevitably will come next.

“No,” David says with a smile, “not at all.” He pauses, holds the gaze of the man before him for a moment. “I wish you all the best in Scranton.” And for a second, it seems like he knows.

The door handle is cold on his skin as he pushes against it. The lights are too bright, too fluorescent and unnatural. He hears the sounds of phones ringing, paper shuffling, pens clicking, keyboards tapping. He notices the way his shoes squeak against the floor, the ugly linoleum floor the colour of boredom. His blazer is suddenly too tight, he suddenly feels overdressed. But he walks past reception, and the phone is ringing and the woman is saying, ‘Dunder Mifflin’ and suddenly her curly red hair and monosyllabic name and white sneakers are all that matter. They are perfect, and where they are is where he needs to be.