I. Precipitation 

Jim hesitates before hitting her speed dial number. Calling Pam over the weekend doesn’t exactly go hand-in-hand with not thinking about her so much, which is after all his only identifiable goal these days. He usually resists, but sometimes the effort required to not simply pick up the phone (as if there’s anything simple about it) only intensifies the focus. It’s like holding his breath; all he can think about is drawing air.

A couple of months ago, when the first of this winter’s relentless snow had arrived, they’d had a rambling don’t-make-me-go-back-to-my-desk lunchtime conversation about snowy movies. She’d mentioned loving Dr. Zhivago and wanting to see it again, but always hesitating to rent it because it was so long. Today when he’d woken up to a near blizzard and flipped open the newspaper’s TV page as he ate breakfast, he’d noticed it was on tonight. Not immediately grabbing for his cell phone, mouth still full of Cheerios, had been an act of sheer will.

By mid-afternoon, not calling her has started to feel like holding an unnatural contortion, a yoga position designed to cloud instead of clear his mind.

Pam answers on the first ring and Jim wonders if that’s a sign. A sign of what, he has no idea. He really needs to stop doing that.

‘Hey, Julie,’ he says when she says hello.

‘Excuse me?’ she sounds confused. ‘Julie?’

‘Well, look out the window…. and guess what’s on TV tonight?’

‘Uh,’ she pauses a second, stumped. ‘The Sound of Music?’

‘Nope. Wrong Julie. And think Tundra, not mountains.’

‘Tundra…. Africa…Out of Africa!’ her excited laugh is like his fix.

‘Pretty sure that’s the Savanna, not the Tundra. And really Pam – snow makes you think of Africa?’

‘Yeah, yeah, thank you Mr. Geography…. gimme another clue!’

‘Let’s see…big fur hats …Bolsheviks …’

‘I’ve got it,’ she blurts out gleefully. ‘Dr. Zhivago!’

‘Yes!’ he exclaims. ‘Thought you’d want to know.’

He’s entirely too pleased with himself, as if he were personally responsible for the cable station’s schedule. He’s aware that his pathetic quotient is scratching the danger zone, but well, fuck it. For a second, all is right in the world.

‘Thanks. I’m totally watching it,’ she trills, though he detects a hint of annoyance when she adds, ‘I’m snowed in here anyway.’

‘Has Roy ever seen it?’ The question leaves his lips before he can even wonder why he’s once again catapulting himself from elation to torture.

‘I doubt it, but he’s over at his brother’s doing something or other with tires.’ The note of exasperation in her tone grows increasingly distinct as she continues, ‘And he just called to say he’s staying for poker tonight…. not that he’d want to watch with me even if he were here.’

‘Oh, okay…’Jim responds uncomfortably.

He’s learned to tread lightly around the ever-shifting boundaries of what’s acceptable to say when Pam is angry with Roy. Unwittingly slipping from sympathetic to judgmental is far too easy, the ensuing unspoken tension too hard to bear.

‘No, it’s fine’ she quickly backtracks. ‘It’s just…. well, I ran into my old high school art teacher yesterday and she has this figure drawing group at her house Saturday nights, with a model and everyone brings wine and sketches and…’

It’s as if she catches herself.  Crackling cellular air hangs between them for a moment before she equivocates, ‘It’s really not important - it was flattering to be invited, that’s all.’

‘You should go,’ Jim says, perhaps a bit too emphatically. ‘It sounds like fun.’

 ‘Yeah, well Roy was supposed to come home in time to dig my car out, because my back is still kind of sore. So…’

The dots connect. A couple of days ago, she’d been moving stiffly around the office, grimacing whenever she stood up. He’d asked what was wrong and she’d said she’d strained a muscle carrying several large loads of laundry up from the basement. Of course, she’d read his mind when he’d frowned and defensively qualified, ‘It’s just a freak thing…I mean, Roy would have helped as soon as the hockey game was over…I was just being impatient.’

‘Tell you what,’ Jim offers, his thoughts returning to the present. ‘I promised to pick up Mark’s girlfriend’s birthday gift before the store closes today. It’s that little jewelry shop you recommended near your place…’

‘In this mess?’ Pam interrupts. ‘Why can’t he get it himself?’

Truth was, Jim hadn’t actually committed to running Mark’s errand yet, asking himself the same question.

‘Her birthday’s tomorrow and they’ve been holed up here all day, so he didn’t think he could get away without letting on,’ he explains, glancing out the window. ‘Anyway, the snow’s pretty much stopped. I’ll just swing by and dig you out when I’m done.’

‘Oh, no, that’s too much to ask, Jim…’

As if on cue, Suzanne’s giggly squeal, followed by an all too graphic male groan reverberates through the thin wall separating his bedroom from Mark’s. Getting out of the house is suddenly imperative as a matter of sanity, contrived reasons to be in Pam’s neighborhood aside.

‘No seriously, it’s not a big deal. And you don’t want to re-injure your back. See you in about an hour?’

‘Okay…I’d really appreciate it. But drive safe. Don’t hurry.’

By the time he digs his own car out, waits for the gift to be wrapped at the store and arrives at Pam’s place, the sky is already fading into dusk. She’s standing on her front stoop waiting, wrapped in a pale blue down jacket. Even in the waning light he can see that it’s well worn, obviously not new. He’s never seen it before. This is Pam dressed for her other world, her away-from-work world. Her away-from-him world.

‘I borrowed this from my landlady,’ she extends the shovel she’s holding as he approaches.

As he pulls on his gloves and takes it from her, she begins to thank him again. Waving off her gratitude, he scans the small parking lot and identifies her tiny stranded car. It really is buried pretty deeply, but is luckily in the spot closest to the road. Vestiges of the tracks from Roy’s truck are still visible, heading straight past it.

‘At least let me make you some hot chocolate,’ she insists when he begins lifting the heavy wet snow.

The snap of wintry air feels good as the wind hits his face. He feels more awake – more alive – than he has in a long time.

‘Marshmallows?’ he calls after her, as she trots gingerly back toward the building.

‘No, damn! We don’t have any.’

‘That’s it, I’m out of here then,’ he grins broadly, resuming his shoveling.

He’s already half done with her car when Pam returns bearing a large steaming mug and a dejected expression.

‘Well, you might as well stop…. there was a message on my machine – tonight is canceled because of the weather. I guess I should have figured.’

‘That’s a drag. Maybe she’ll reschedule,’ Jim suggests hopefully.

‘Yeah, maybe…I’m really sorry to have put you out for nothing though.’

‘It’s not for nothing… you’re going to need to get out of here eventually, Pam.’

She stares off for a second as if contemplating his words, before looking back at him. ‘Hey, why don’t you stay for dinner?’ she asks more brightly. ‘I owe you one.’

‘No, you don’t. Really, I’m happy to do this. Good exercise,’ he smiles, flexing a wool-obscured muscle for full he-man emphasis.

‘Come on, I’ve got a freezer full of sauce I made with tomatoes from the farmers’ market last fall, and Roy only likes the supermarket stuff. I’m never going to get though it all myself – you’d be doing me a favor. I can defrost it in the nuker.’

‘Nuclear dinner, huh?’

‘I’m a modern girl, Jim,’ she quips. Her smile quickly fades into something more serious as she says, ‘Please stay.’

It’s already dark out, Mark and Suzanne are probably making out in his kitchen by now, there’s really nothing to eat in his fridge anyway…and Pam asked. How could he refuse?

Before following her inside, he downs his hot chocolate and finishes liberating her car. He also clears the pile of snow blocking the driveway, apparently left by the plow after Roy’s hasty departure. The streetlights flicker on just as he completes the job, casting a yellowish glow over the icy white blanket surrounding him. It makes everything look almost surreal, at once ordinary and unknown.  

Jim has been to Pam’s apartment a few times before: a Super Bowl party shortly after they’d met; picking her up on the rare occasions they got together outside work; once to bring her take-out soup for lunch, when she was home from work with the flu.  Still, as he removes his jacket and wet boots by the front door, it feels strange to be here. A faintly unsettled pang spreads warmly through the pit of his stomach. It’s not entirely unpleasant.

Glancing around, his gaze falls to a big newsprint pad and a transparent plastic carrying case filled with drawing supplies on the table by door. A bottle of red wine with a festive green ribbon tied around its neck sits next to it.

‘I guess we might as well drink that,’ Pam says, ducking into the kitchen for a bottle opener and two glasses, all of which she presents to him.

‘There’s some jug wine already opened, but this is much better…or at least, a lot more expensive,’ she gestures to the bottle that’s all dressed up with nowhere to go. She laughs quietly, ‘I was trying to impress my teacher.’

Jim keeps her company while she nukes and boils, drinking wine and helping chop vegetables for a salad. The funny thing is they don’t even talk much while they work, as if they do this all the time. If not for the weird persistent sensation now gradually spreading from his gut to his limbs and head, this might almost feel normal.

‘It’s nice not to be alone in the kitchen,’ Pam remarks as she points to a cupboard, indicating where the pasta is stored. ‘Pick one?’

He peruses the choices. There are bow ties and seashells and assorted corkscrew varieties.

‘Roy only likes spaghetti. Maybe linguini if he’s being fancy.’

‘Really? Couldn’t tell that by this line up.’

‘My little rebellion,’ she grins mischievously without looking up from the pot she’s stirring.

He hands her a box of the twistiest shape he can find.

When they finally sit down to eat, the pasta is delicious - the best he’s ever had. Or maybe it’s just the best he’s ever had with Pam, which is pretty much the same thing. She deflects his praise, ‘it’s nothing fancy,’ but she’s clearly pleased, insisting on piling his plate with seconds

‘This totally makes up for your appalling lack of marshmallows,’ he smiles, slurping up the last of his noodles.

He looks across the kitchen table at Pam’s face, lit by the small flickering candle she’s placed between them. He loves her like this, loose and relaxed, her cheeks flushed from the wine. He wonders what it would be like to see her this way every day, every night - for this to really be his ‘normal.’

That bubble is abruptly burst by the shrill ringing of the telephone. It’s obvious who it is. Jim gets up to clear the dishes, pretending not to listen.

‘Fine,’ he hears her say into the receiver, followed by a long silence during which her entire body visibly tenses. When she speaks again, the ease she had at dinner has disappeared.  ‘No, I don’t want you to drive home…it’s way too late – the class was cancelled anyway.’ Her voice clenches even more as she responds to something Roy says, ‘you’re obviously drunk and the roads are icy. Just stay over there…. No, I’m not mad, Roy. I’m…I’m…look, let’s just talk about this tomorrow…Okay.’

She hangs up without saying goodbye. He also notices that she didn’t tell Roy that he’s here with her. He knows better than to read anything into it. She was probably just anxious to end the call, too aggravated to make small talk. Still.

‘Pour me some more wine, would you?’ she forces a smile, interrupting his train of thought. ‘The movie starts in couple of minutes…you’re staying to watch with me, right?’

Dr. Zhivago. He’d forgotten all about it. Somehow, their phone conversation that afternoon seems like years, not just a few hours, ago.

‘Sure, why not,’ he agrees, emptying the last of the bottle into her outstretched glass.

He can think of about a dozen reasons why not right off the top of his head. None of them seem to matter at the moment. As the first strains of Lara’s Theme fill the air and the credits begin to roll, they settle down side by side on the sofa. Almost immediately, he can sense Pam unwinding again. She pulls her legs up under her and gets comfortable, spreads out a little. It’s not a large sofa.

It’s hardly a shock that her proximity proves distracting. Every time she absentmindedly reaches up to wind one of her curls around her finger, or even inhales, he loses all track of the film’s plot. Had he not seen it before, he’d literally have no idea what it was about. About halfway through, she gets up to fill their glasses with jug wine (‘pretend this is vodka,’ she suggests) and when she sits back down, it’s just as close, maybe even closer. She winces slightly, pressing her hand to the small of her back.

‘Still bothering you?’ Jim asks.

‘A little,’ she nods.

He thinks he’s drunker on her nearness, her scent, than on alcohol when he reaches out and gently pushes her shoulder, so she angles her back towards him. He almost can’t help himself, but he’s surprised by how readily she complies. Like this is nothing unusual. He begins to massage, careful not to stray even an inch beyond the area her own movements had indicated. The edge of her sweater has ridden above the waistband of her jeans, exposing a small crescent of skin. His fingertips just barely graze it. It’s smooth, almost velvety, like he knew it would be. Pam doesn’t even start, just let’s her weight relax into his hands like that’s where they belong. When she makes a satisfied humming sound and sighs, ‘yeah, right there,’ he loses his ability to breathe.

It’s too much.

He hastily withdraws his hands, with a friendly pat on the back to show – himself more than her - that he’s not deluded. Turning back to face the television, she seems oblivious, lightly leaning against his side. Her posture implies nothing suggestive.

He’s pretty sure.

Making matters worse, it’s chilly in her living room. He can’t help noticing her nipples poking visibly against the thin peach colored wool of her top. At least he assumes it’s from the temperature. He looks away quickly, but his body has a mind – apparently that of a sixteen year old – of its own. He recalls an evening much like this one a few months earlier, watching a movie on another girl’s sofa. Katie had literally straddled his lap, shimmied out of her shirt and unzipped his fly, and his involuntary reaction had been no more instantaneous or intense than the one he’s experiencing right now.  He repositions his leg and a grabs throw pillow, he hopes discreetly, to avoid humiliating himself. 

For just a second, he allows himself to envision a parallel life where it wouldn’t be mortifying for Pam to see the effect the mere thought of her breasts has on him. Where he wouldn’t need to hide. He imagines her laughing, leaning in to kiss him, reaching down to touch him, oh fuck, touching him, as she whispers in his ear ‘we already know how this movie ends.’ He’d flick off the remote and take her in his arms. She’d wrap herself around him, warm, soft and eager. There’d be no shame.

This train of thought definitely isn’t helping his current predicament. It’s also about as likely to occur as their assuming the identities of Dr. Zhivago’s fictional lovers. He makes himself focus on the television screen. Pam seems absorbed, sniffling quietly as Yuri and Lara begin their doomed affair.

She was right; he’d forgotten how very long this movie is. Somewhere around the three-hour mark, her head starts to list towards his shoulder, then onto it, and she’s asleep, her hair tickling his cheek. Jim shifts his position slightly and she moves with him, her hand unconsciously dropping to his thigh. It lands solidly in the narrow DMZ between the area where an old aunt might pat you on the leg and the one where a touch is another thing altogether. It’s her fingertips, curved to delicately rest against the inseam of his jeans that push it over the edge. Except, she couldn’t be aware of what she’s doing.

She’s not even conscious of that when she’s awake.

He tries, unsuccessfully, to ignore it. By the time she stirs, an older ruined Yuri has literally died of a broken heart. He’s crossed the frozen Tundra for Lara, written her transcendent love poems, and still he’s lost her to history. An infomercial drones in the background as Pam slowly opens her eyes and looks up at him, hazily but directly. She lets her hand linger a beat too long to be completely unambiguous.

Jim stares back at her, and something in her expression seems to say she would give him everything right now. If only he’d ask. Or, he could be seeing what he wants to see. The longer he plays this game, the worse he gets at it.

He hears his voice imploring her, Oh Pam oh Pam oh Pam I’ve loved you so long… 

But it’s only inside his head.

The sound coming out his mouth says, ‘I should go…it’s late.’

‘You don’t have to,’ she quickly replies. ‘I mean, the roads are bad…and the sofa pulls out. I could…’ she trails off, as he begins to extricate himself.

‘No, I really shouldn’t. I have Suzanne’s gift in the car, so…’

He forces himself to stand up and go to the door to put on his boots and jacket. She follows, looking sleepy and maybe a little disappointed and god, he wants to kiss her so much he actually feels dizzy with it. It’s like the room is spiraling and her lips pressing against his is the only thing that would make it stop. But even now, he knows that’s not true. It would steady nothing, just dissolve the fragile glue that holds them in the same orbit at all. 

‘Stay warm,’ he settles for bending down to place a single chaste peck on her forehead.

‘Be careful,’ her words are barely audible as he hurries out the door.

There’s a fresh dusting of snow on his car, which he brushes away with his bare hand. He doesn’t even wait for his engine to warm enough for the defroster to work. Straining to see through the foggy windshield, wheels struggling for traction on the packed icy street, he just drives away in the dark. He’s gone a full block before a lone car heading in the opposite direction honks and he realizes he forgot his headlights. Flipping them on, he makes a turn onto the main road that sends him into a skid. He narrowly averts a collision with an oncoming snowplow, working late into the night.

As Jim rights himself, the snowplow powers undeterred down Pam’s street. He continues on, certain it will cover the path he’d shoveled earlier.

It will be as if it never happened.

 *****