"Jim!" she ran to the door. "You're here!"
He gave her that crooked smile that always made her feel like a blushing, giggling eleven year old. "Did you think I'd miss the biggest event of the year for the Scranton Art Scene? What kind of uncultured clod do you take me for? Besides, I need to pick up my purchases."
"Purchases?"
"Yeah, I was actually here this morning before the show officially opened. I knew I wouldn't be able to come here until late, and I wanted to be sure I didn't miss it. But, I might have selected some fine art for my new apartment while I was here...."
Pam felt her cheeks getting sore and knew she must be smiling ridiculously hard. She impulsively grabbed Jim's hand and pulled him over towards the wall where most of her work was displayed. "Come on! I want to hear what you think of all this!"
He laughed and looked at the first collection, a set of four very small watercolors showing the progression of a flower in the bud as it burst into bloom. They were entitled, "Becoming (Thanks to You)" and Pam shivered a little knowing that she had done this particular project one afternoon when she was thinking very much of her friend Jim.
"Well," he smiled. "I hope that this is a masterwork, because this is the group I bought. I like it -- it really reminds me of you."
"If I could have picked one out for you, that would have been it." She said truthfully, and led him to the next piece, a giant canvas covered with paint, photographs, clippings, and text. "This one was an experimental mixed media piece...I'm actually really curious about what you think of this one."
It was a trick question. This piece was her least favorite, done in a despairing mood, overwhelmed, lost, and angry. It was a swirl of words and symbols representing Roy and Jim and all the demands that her family and friends placed on her last June. Roy had immediately recognized the symbols that indicated himself, and Pam had been surprised that he had picked up on the artistic symbolism so easily. He couldn't grasp the rest, though, and asked her if it was going to be his birthday gift.
Jim looked at the canvas and frowned. "I don't know, Pam. I'm no art scholar....I probably have no idea what I'm talking about....I know this can't be right....but....I don't know...this is just, well...it kind of makes me sad to look at it. It's crazy for me to say this, there is so much going on there, so it can't be right...but, it feels so lonely."
"That's exactly right, Professor." Pam smiled up at him. Of course. He hadn't seen himself in that piece -- he'd seen her.
"Um, Pam?"
"Yeah?"
"Um...you're still holding my hand."
"I know."
He smiled down at her, and she felt herself blushing, but firmly met his eyes with hers. But, then, a cloud passed over his face.
"Where's Roy?" He said the name like is was a profanity. The moment was gone. Pam dropped his hand.
"I don't know, Jim. He was here earlier, but left. He is having a hard time accepting that it's over between us...I hope he gets over it soon." Her cheeks were growing hot and she had to work really hard to steady her voice. "Where's Karen?"
"Home. She wants to go to some play in Philly tomorrow, so we are leaving early."
"I see." Plans. They had Plans. Just the thought of Plans made her feel a little small, a little ill, and more than a little alone. That one little notion of a shared Saturday in the city seemed so intimate, so special...She swallowed hard. She suddenly remembered the last time she had gone to a play, a weekend in New York with her mother. They had raced for the Subway and almost missed the train. Pam had sprinted down the platform and thrust her hands into the closing doors, fighting her way on to the train before it pulled away. If she closed her eyes right now, she was sure she would see those doors again, sliding shut before her, sending the train rapidly away, clattering down the track in the darkness of a subterranean tunnel.
"Jim." There was no questioning in her voice. Pam was not asking, she was telling. "I need you to know something."
Author's Chapter Notes:
Still not mine, none of it.
