Jim sits on a bench outside, staring.

The shrubs across the asphalt are a blur behind the replay of his day so far. Actually, just Michael's Welcome to the Jungle cover on Jim's desk, and Dwight's air guitar backup, over and over. Jim lifts his sandwich, remembering Michael's knees on his blotter, his hips bucking at Jim's eye level. He winces and gets mustard on his chin.

"Whoa."

He tries to smear the mustard off before looking up. The bearded guy grinning down at him works here, too; that's what his shirt says, anyway, and as bizarre as Jim's day has been, at least he can wear his own clothes. Unlike-

"Roy," the guy says, sticking out his hand.

"Jim," he says, taking it. Two pumps. Meaty, but dry.

Roy's hands settle on his hips, one finger tapping. "Rough day?" he chuckles.

"Yeah, I, uh, just started in the office," Jim says, pointing at the logo on Roy's shirt.

"Okay," Roy says, then, "Oh! With that Michael guy, right?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah!" Roy nods, laughing, and drops onto the bench beside Jim. It rocks a little. "Man, Michael. I don't get up there much, but Darryl - my boss? - says he's a nutcase."

"Yeah." Jim thinks that may be just the tip of the insanity.

Roy leans forward. "What'd he do this time?" There's a challenge there to top whatever story Darryl told last, but the eyes are friendly - blue - and Jim doesn't even have to make up anything.

"I got a private Guns'N'Roses concert."

Roy's eyes are wide.

"On my desk."

Roy stares. "Serious?"

When Jim nods, Roy's head drops into his hands.

"Spit, sweat, the works. He really rocked it out." Jim squints. "I almost threw my panties."

Roy's chuckle is low. "Ho, shit." His knee bounces sideways, bumping Jim's. An unconscious thing, but the contact spurs Jim on.

"Must've been the reunion tour, too, ‘cause Dwight was doing Slash-"

The laughter stops. "Ugh. Dwight." Roy sits back and shakes his head. " ‘At guy's a tool."

"But apparently The Top Salesman At The Branch For Eleven Consecutive Quarters." When Roy frowns, Jim explains, "That's how he introduced himself."

"Tool."

The change of mood makes Jim uncomfortable. He fights the urge to smooth it over, and loses.

"Nice day, though, huh?"

Nice day? What am I, his fucking bank teller?

But Roy looks at the sky, nodding. "Cold'll be here soon enough."

"Yeah." Jim holds up his sandwich. "Thought I'd get outta the office while I could..."

"Oh, sure!" Roy says, looking concerned. "Sorry, man, didn't mean to interrupt your lunch-"

"No, you didn't-"

"Nah, that's okay." Roy stands, wiping clean hands on clean pants. "Hey, uh, you like pool? Or beer?"

"Sure," Jim laughs.

"Yeah, who doesn't like beer, right? Stupid." Roy shakes his head. "Anyway, the guys're goin' to Poor Richard's after work. You know... let off some steam..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so, you know, if you wanna come..."

"Um, sure. Yeah." Jim nods. "Poor Richard's."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay. See you there."

"Yeah, man." He watches Roy as he walks away, recognizes the easy stride of an athlete. He thinks Roy's sport probably involved pads and a helmet. When he turns back to the shrubs, the Michael/Dwight loop is punctuated by a low laugh and the ghost of pressure on the side of his knee. Out of curiosity, he tries to rock the bench. He can't; it's bolted down.

He finishes his sandwich, then goes inside to Mapquest Poor Richard's.

* * *

Roy makes him repeat the story for Darryl and Nick. When he's finished, Nick's hunched over his beer, coughing. Darryl looks at Jim. "Really?"

"Really."

Darryl shakes his head. "Dude's crazy."

Roy grins, pointing at Darryl with his beer. "Can you imagine him air-humpin' your desk, pullin' the phone cord back and forth between his legs-"

Darryl's hand are up, his eyes screwed shut. "Stop, stop! Shit's nasty, man."

Roy cackles and throws an arm around Jim's shoulders. "This guy lived it!" One big hand squeezes Jim's arm and stays there.

Darryl fills Jim's beer. "You're gonna need this. To forget." He looks at Roy. "Table's open."

"Cool." Roy slips away from his bar stool and follows Darryl to the pool table.

Jim drinks and tries to forget how his bicep had jumped at Roy's touch, and how his arm feels a bit cold now. When Nick mentions Roy's girlfriend, away at college, it barely registers.

* * *

Jim's well on his way to taking Dwight's Twelfth Consecutive Quarter when Roy seeks him out.

"Surprised to see you up here."

"I know," Roy says, checking for Michael. "Hey, we're gonna play hockey Saturday, and we need another guy. You in?"

"Sure." It's not Jim's strongest sport, but every kid in northeastern Pennsylvania spends his winters on ice, so he can hold his own. "Where? The rink?"

"Nah, the real thing, man. Nick's got a pond on his property, so..."

"Oh, cool..."

"Yeah, so you want directions?"

Friday night, Jim digs his skates out of the closet. The tongues are curled and one of the laces breaks when he pulls it tight. He replaces it with one from a hiking boot (also at the back of the closet) and walks around his bedroom to get used to the feel of the blades again. Mark catches him looking in his full-length mirror.

"Ready for the ball, Snow White?"

"Shut up. And it's Cinderella, asshole."

Mark walks away laughing. "Whatever, Tinker Bell."

Jim leaves early Saturday, too early, and sits outside Nick's place in his car, waiting. The cold drives him out of it, though, and he's been making ovals around the pond for twenty minutes when Roy's truck pulls up the drive. It's followed by a couple guys Jim's met, but whose names are hazy. Mike and Frank? Good enough.

Nick brings the goals from the garage, and they set up the teams. After Darryl, Nick, and Frank split off, Mike offers to play goal for Roy and Jim.

"All right, Halpert, it's you and me. Ready?"

"I think I have too many teeth."

Roy laughs, then frowns. "Hey!"

Jim chuckles and smacks him on the ass with his stick on the way to the center.

To Jim's relief, he does hold his own. The passing, the strokes, the stops, all come back, and he feels ten years old again. Except when Roy pulls him aside to strategize, and Roy's breath is something Jim can swallow, his voice low in Jim's ear, and Jim remembers seventeen.

They rotate at the half, and Jim takes over the goal. He's really too tall, and cracks his knees on the ice several times because none of them are wearing guards, but he's doing better than he expected when Frank's stick takes him by surprise. The impact knocks him backward and when he hits the ice, he feels the chip on his tongue. He pulls his glove off, checks his front teeth, and groans.

"Shit."

Roy's kneeling over him by then. "Lemme see."

Jim fishes out the chip and spits blood onto the ice. When he bares his teeth again, Roy nods.

"Yup. He gotcha."

Later, over beer and aspirin, they toast Jim's busted hockey cherry, flashing five mouths of unbroken teeth.

"Fuck off," he says, grinning, and they cheer.

Before he goes to bed, Jim finds the chip again in his pocket, and pads into the kitchen with it. It's just a sliver, really, shiny on one side, and he decides it isn't worth taking to a dentist. He remembers something from high school chemistry class then, and puts the sliver of tooth on a plate. He roots around in the cabinets until he finds what he's looking for. He pours the vinegar onto the plate, then leans against the counter, watching the tiny bubbles form and pop. He remembers then the way Roy had run the tip of his tongue over his own front teeth as Jim lay on the ice.

He adds vinegar until the chip dissolves completely.

* * *