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Jan has had many, many vodka tonics, and it feels very, very late.

She’s not certain why she decided to leave the Christmas party early (this has always been, deep down, her favorite time of the year) but she is starting to realize (possibly aided by those vodka tonics), with not a little dread, that it has rather a lot to do with this… feeling she has started to feel every time she sees some happy family traipsing along the street with a Christmas tree in tow. Or stumbles (absolutely by accident) on one of those nauseating holiday specials on television. Or hears another of those fucking diamond commercials on the radio. (Not that she’s an overly sentimental person, or even would admit any of this if pressed… but Jesus.)

It scares her sometimes, how it seems as if pieces of her are beginning to crack and fall away from her body. She can’t get rid of the feeling that some morning she will wake up and find that what she has worked so hard to build and maintain for so many years will have crumbled away for good and it will become all too apparent that she is in fact lonely, isolated, shaken. (It surprises her, daily now, how totally she is able to fool everybody.)

This is the first Christmas she has been really, truly, finally alone. Last year she was still able to cling to the delusion that maybe, possibly, perhaps her marriage wasn’t actually over. There is no question about that now. There is also no question about the fact that she (Jan Levinson, oldest, most successful child in her family, graduate of some really excellent schools, well-respected corporate executive) is in the process of failing at life.

Jan is leaning against her cold, clean, empty kitchen counter and sloppily putting the finishing touches on a rather potent vodka tonic (she is hoping that, as it too often does, the vodka will help her pretend she’s able to glue the pieces back together) when she realizes that her phone is buzzing loudly from her purse. She shakes herself and snaps up straight, striding across the room.

The floor tilts a little (but surely that’s just the vodka) as she glances at the phone and snaps it open.

“Michael, why are you calling me?”

Michael Scott is most certainly not the person she needs to be talking to right now. He has an infuriating ability to make her gut twist, cringe, flutter. Horrifying HR scenarios frequently surface courtesy of his indiscretion.

Worst of all, the pieces seem to fall away faster when Michael’s around.

“So there’s nothing wrong at the branch? … What about karaoke? … Michael, surely you didn’t call to update me on the status of the office Christmas party. Was there an actual purpose for this call?”

She is opening her mouth to tell Michael exactly what he can do with his ridiculous (and totally unprofessional) invitation when her eyes focus on her Christmas tree. On her three-foot tall, fake (but very authentic-looking) Christmas tree. On her two lonely presents underneath her Christmas tree.

Jan takes a deep breath (and, okay, a quick gulp of her vodka tonic) and decides that maybe, just once, it’s okay if she lets some of the pieces fall.

“You know what, Michael, sure. I’d love to go.”

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