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Author's Chapter Notes:
Jim wakes up and Pam flies.

Jim would have, in an ideal world, slept as long as he could. Probably at least half a day. Maybe more. One time, when he and Mark had taken a spring break trip to Dublin for St. Patrick’s Day, he’d actually passed out for 18 hours at a stretch because of the jet lag, and wasn’t Sydney even further away than Dublin?

 

He had already rehearsed to himself a long list of reasons why this was not the ideal world, a list which always began with “Pam doesn’t love me” and worked its way down to things like “Dwight exists” and “Todd Packer is not in jail.” But now there was another item for the list: while he did have a private room at the hostel (there was saving money and then there was having to deal with strangers while you sobbed your heart out over a woman who didn’t love you), the walls were paper thin, and a group of German tourists decided to make themselves at home with some very loud conversation about how disappointed they were with the Sydney Opera House. At least, he assumed it was that—the only words he could understand were “Opernhaus” which he took to be Opera House, and German being an inherently violent language he simply assumed they were disappointed or angry. If Dwight were there, he might have been able to translate, but that would not have been an improvement.

                                                              

Even this might have been tolerable, had he not been hit simultaneously by two waves of related sadness. On the one hand, this was exactly the sort of anecdote he would tell to Pam, if he thought there was any chance of them ever being on speaking terms again without breaking his heart. He could imagine it now: a mild Dwight imitation with wild hand motions as he ranted about the “schönes geschwungenes Opernhaus” at full volume. She’d laugh. His heart would break just a little more.

 

The other wave was more retrospective. He’d never admitted it to himself before, but at this precise moment he had to confess that he’d chosen Australia not just because of the kangaroos, not just because it was or at least seemed to be the farthest place he could get from Scranton for Pam’s wedding, not just because there’d been a deal on Qantas, but because of a conversation he and Pam had had way back in that first year when he’d been not entirely completely gone yet—but still paying full attention to everything and anything she said.

 

He wasn’t sure exactly how they’d gotten on the topic of architecture; possibly something about the boxiness of their office building, which had led to a discussion of the worst and best buildings they’d ever seen (her: the old Quonset hut grocery store her parents used to go to when she was little and a gorgeous house with a terrace garden she’d spotted on a family trip to New Orleans in sixth grade that had stuck with her; him: Dunder Mifflin [obviously, Pam, how could you think otherwise] and Fallingwater) which had segued into him recollecting a childhood trip to Oak Park, Illinois (where his great-uncle lived) and all the Frank Lloyd Wright houses there. From that they’d started talking architecture, and it had turned out that Pam’s interest in drawing had closely mirrored his sister Larissa’s in architectural drafting, and she’d excitedly shown up to work the next day to show him a sketch she’d done as a teenager (it had made him unduly happy that she’d specified that this was “just an old thing, even before Roy and I got together”). It was a perspective sketch of a building, clearly from what Pam had called her “architectural phase.”

 

It was the Sydney Opera House.

 

So of course, when he’d decided to run as far away from Pam Beesly as he could, he’d run straight towards the single place on that side of the world that most reminded him of her. He pondered the irony—because it was probably safer to ponder that than to plan the violent murder of a gaggle of German tourists with only a pillow, a blanket, and the contents of his backpack.

 

**

 

The problem with air travel, Pam decided, is that there was too much downtime. Even the entertainment options on the plane were disappointing (what did she expect with Delta?). She’d started to watch the Forty Year Old Virgin, only to stop after the main character reminded her too much of Michael. Then she’d tried the music stations, only to be instantly betrayed by the Britpop station filling her ears with “Sing, Sing, Sing” and her eyes with tears. Her best first date that wasn’t a date, and wasn’t even actually their first. If she’d better known what she was doing, how she really felt, she would have chided Jim for that instead of for the audacity of broaching the idea of a date at all. She could see it now in her mind’s eye: “Our first date, Jim? How could you forget Cugino’s! Did it mean nothing to you?” followed by fake tears. Except how could she imagine fake tears with the real ones streaming down her face?

 

The woman next to her leaned over. “Can I offer you a tissue, dearie?”

 

Pam initially considered refusing, but then thought about how she must look: sitting there in the middle seat (a hazard of last-minute ticket purchases) with tears and probably snot streaming down her face. “Uh, thanks.”

 

“You’re very welcome.” The woman sat back and then leaned again. “Are you OK?”

 

It was a silly question, as the woman’s face seemed to suggest she immediately realized. But for some reason it made Pam’s tears turn into laughter, and so it was a blessing.

 

“No. No I’m not OK.” She dabbed and wiped with the tissue before consigning it to the seatback pocket in front of her. “But it’s OK not to be OK, you know?”

 

“Very wise.” The woman smiled and produced another tissue. “It’s better not to pretend, isn’t it.”

 

The words hit Pam deep in her gut. “You know? It really is.”

Chapter End Notes:
For the record, I made sure that Jim does not speak German, because they're actually complimenting the Opera House. More soon! Thanks for the feedback, it's been really valuable to me in keeping this story going.

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