It wasn’t that she wasn’t having fun, necessarily. Good food, good music, and fairy lights strung over the crowd like stars on a cold night. The general feeling of unease and embarassment that had permeated the room for several minutes after Michael had trailed helplessly in Carol’s pom-pommed wake had dissipated, and everyone had made their way back onto the dance floor in a blur of shiny, silky colour.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t having fun. It was just that she wished she had someone to share it with.

She pulled out her phone, making her way into the hallway lined with shoes as she began to dial his number by memory. She hit ‘Options’, and then ‘Send Txt Msg’ before pausing to think of what she was actually doing.

They hadn’t spoken since that night when he’d called after hours. Her response to his voice had been less than desireable (who said “Oh, my God,” when they answered the phone? Honestly. She still kicked herself for losing her cool like that.) But their conversation had, after the initial, unbearably painful first few words, progressed into familiar territory, with old nicknames and playful ribbing punctuating the conversation about multiple kitchens.

She wasn’t sure whose court the ball was in. But she knew that she missed him. And she knew that she had her phone open, poised to send a message relaying that very sentiment.

The first thing she tapped in was ‘Miss you, call me?’ but that had sounded almost desperate, and that was the last thing she wanted. She deleted that and tried again. ‘U free? Can I call u?’ but that just seemed equally as pathetic. ‘Dwight is wearing a dress’ was next in line, but she didn’t think that really did the situation any justice without visual reference, so she got rid of that one too, and ‘I love you’ had replaced it on the screen before she’d even realised she’d written it.

She stared at the blinking cursor, sitting idly behind the ‘u’, and let her finger hover over the send button for a few seconds before quickly deleting that message. ‘Michael proposed to Carol on 9th date. Oops.’ There. That sounded good. Non chalant yet fun, in that painfully Michael Scott way. She hit send, and let her arm drop to her side, trying not to look back at it to see if there was any response yet.

After a brief and uncomfortable conversation with Angela, she made her way outside, pausing and reconsidering that decision when she saw Michael hunched over on the steps. She glanced at her phone again before sitting awkwardly next to him.

She had to admit, she did feel kind of sorry for him. He never could make the right decisions for himself.

“I was waiting for something to happen, too,” she’d said, feeling the solid weight of her cell between her fingers.

Of course, Michael had ruined it by leaning towards her, eyes closed, and she forgot about the phone momentarily as she struggled to battle the disgust and overall dirty feeling she’d gotten from that little gesture.

As she pulled her car around later, her phone sitting idly on the seat beside her, and waited for Michael to climb into the back seat, she actually considered just pulling away from the curb, away from Scranton, away from Pennsylvania and just driving. North and east. Connecticut wasn’t that far away, was it? Maybe three hours?

But the slight bounce as Michael settled into his seat, and his comment “Where’s your turban, Mrs. Taxi Driver! I’m sure you could find one back in the party!” yanked her swiftly from that fantasy, and she pulled away from the curb and followed his directions home. She managed to keep him relatively silent until she pulled into his condo complex, trying unsuccessfully to roll up her window before he had the chance make a comment about payment, followed by a comment about hookers.

Her phone still sat, dark and quiet, on the seat beside her.

***

He wasn’t really sure where he was. He knew that there was light, and that had to stop. He knew that his mouth was dry, and he seemed to be wearing his work clothes. He knew that he really wanted to throw up, and then die. And then maybe throw up again.

The room slowly came into focus, his eyes bleary and unfocused as he pulled his head (God, why was his head so heavy?) up from where it had been resting in the crook of his elbow. There was drool on his sleeve cuff.

Somehow he had made it home. And he knew it hadn’t been on his bike, because standing had been much too difficult last night. Balancing on two little wheels was not an option.

He glanced around, wincing when he turned his neck. Why he’d decided to sleep on the floor of his bedroom when his bed was two feet away was beyond him. He just knew that he needed aspirin. And coffee. And maybe an electric drill, so he could poke a few holes in his skull to relieve the pressure built up there.

He found the aspirin on the counter in his bathroom, next to a bottle of water and a note scrawled in neat, girly writing. He downed a couple of pills and pulled the note out from under the bottle. It took a few tries before he managed to actually focus on the paper.

“Take two aspirin, drink lots of water, and throw your shots in the garbage next time Andy brings the jager. –Karen”

A small smile played on his lips, and he pulled his tie over his head, intent on grabbing a long, hot shower in the hopes of washing the overall feeling of hangover from his skin.

He was about to step into the tub when he noticed a flashing out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed his cell phone from where it had fallen from his pants pocket. “1 NEW TXT” flashed across the screen. Curious, he flipped it open, and his stomach dropped when he saw the familiar number.

‘Michael proposed to Carol on 9th date. Oops.’

A bark of laughter escaped before he could stop it, and immediately regretted it when his head gave a particularily sharp throb. He hit ‘Reply’ and started typing.

***

Pam had already checked the voicemail, filed the faxes, written down all the messages and played three rounds of free cell before she allowed herself to pull her cell from her purse. It had remained quiet all night long and throughout the whole morning, reminding her that she hadn’t received any new messages.

Only when she pulled it from her purse, the little green light was blinking, and the words ‘New Messages’ flickered on the display.

‘At least we all know he can wear white to the wedding.’

She laughed out loud, briefly picturing a virginal Michael Scott in a stark white tux, but quieted very quickly when Dwight glared at her from his desk.

She was glad she’d selected the long-distance text messaging plan. She had a feeling she was going to need it. She smiled to herself and began typing a response.