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Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Chapter Notes:
I couldn't get over how bad Pam's art was in "Business School", so I came up with a reason why she didn't show her best work in public.
Shadows define light, describe boundaries and substance. Without the darkness, there can be no limits, no definition, no resolution. Her teachers tell her to leave plenty of white space to delineate the objects she draws, but she finds herself drawn to the darkness, the quiet black space where everything disappears into silence. The harshness is a strange kind of comfort.

She makes sure to get an easel at the back of the class every time. It creeps her out to think there might be someone behind her, looking over her shoulder. Judging her. She looks forward to these nights but they scare her. So different from her predictable, boring, sad little life. There is possibility here. Possibility frightens her, intrigues her, makes her skin prickle in a good way. But not enough to encourage her to step over the edge.

Chiaroscuro is a modelling technique to give three dimensions to an object. She's tried it before, but can't bring herself to show it to anyone. The results are strange, skewed, yet somehow satisfying to some sense she cannot name. But for public presentation, for her teacher and fellow students, she brings out the safe and acceptable sketches, the pale, static watercolors. She feels safe with just two dimensions. Staplers, buildings, mugs, flowers. There are never any people in her sketches.

There is one face, one pair of hands she draws over and over and over, and she does not show those to anyone. They never come out quite right, anyway. It's so hard to draw from memory rather than from life.

Winter is a season of chiaroscuro: white snow over black asphalt, relentless gray skies, black ice on sidewalk and stair. Snow lies white on black bare branches outside her window. She looks at the lowering skies and longs for bright sunshine.

One day there is a break in the sky, and she sees the sunlight sneaking in through the Venetian blinds of the conference room, slanting long fingers into the open bullpen where everyone fights the glare of fluorescent lights. Her fingers itch until she can't stand it, and she grabs a pencil and a piece of paper. From her desk, she captures the bend of his neck, the silhouette of his head, the way his shoulders are highlighted against the blue glow of his monitor. Light against gray against dark. Shadow defines the hollow of his shoulder where it meets his neck, the darkness of his uncombed hair. Light etches the slope of shoulder and the swell of bicep under white shirt. It takes her half an hour to capture him, to pin him down in black and white on #10 card stock. She pushes it under a stack of faxes when Michael walks over to tell her about his sales call at a urology clinic across town. He's interrupted by Toby, who calls her to ask for help collating a massive HR policy handbook that he has to hand out to everyone in the office today. She forwards the phone and spends the rest of the afternoon trying to tune Kelly out while she stacks papers in order.

By the time she gets back to her desk, it's quitting time and everyone is gone. She gathers her things, notices the stack of faxes is gone, as well as the drawing. She looks everywhere but can't find it. She hopes nobody faxed it to Corporate. Shrugs, goes home. Light spills from below the cloud cover as she gets into her car. The snow plows have been out, and the black streets are lined in ermine.

He's waiting at her door, with the drawing in his hand. His face is solemn, confused.

"I found it on your desk."

She looks away. "You shouldn't have taken it."

"Michael was trying to get a look at it."

"Oh. Well, then, thanks."

He holds the drawing out to her. She takes it. Stands there, looking at it, feeling the heat of his gaze, unable to meet it.

"You're very good," he says. His voice is low, it rumbles between them. "I'm ... I'm flattered."

She shakes her head. She's not that good. Not yet.

Chiaroscuro gives only the illusion of depth. It cannot create it where it does not exist. She is not ready for this conversation. She may never be.

He steps forward, takes the keys from her nervous hands. Opens the door. Steps back and hands her the keys.

She looks at the portrait of the back of his head. Takes a deep breath, forces herself to meet his gaze. Dark eyes in a pale face, dark hair tossing in the cold wind. Dark coat over white shirt. So much contrast, him and her: his boldness, her reticence. Separated by so many boundaries.

"I...I have more," she says. Meaning more artwork, but maybe something else, too.

He says nothing, waiting. She steps into the apartment, holding her breath.

And he follows her in and shuts the door.

Maybe his light leavens her darkness. Maybe her darkness buoys his light. For whatever reason, now that he's here, she feels stronger, more confident. But then, he always brought out the best in her.

She nods to the chair and he sits, his dark coat folding up around him like bat wings. She notices white snow in his dark hair, resists the urge to brush it. His eyes don't leave her, watching.

She goes to the desk in the corner, takes out the folio no one but her ever sees. Lays it in his lap.

It takes him a long time to go through it, though there aren't many pictures. His hands, lying on a chair arm. His feet, crossed at the ankle. His face in profile, in three-quarter round, and one page with nothing but his left eye done over and over. Each eye has a different expression. She can never quite capture those fleeting expressions that say so much. It's frustrating.

She stands, hands twisted together, saying nothing, watching him look at her work. She makes her mind blank, a canvas on which he can write anything. She makes herself receptive.

He closes the folio and sits looking down at it in his lap, saying nothing. His shoulders slump under the wet wool. Tired. Defeated.

"I can't..." he says. "Can't fight this. Not if you do this..." He looks up and his eyes are a study in contrast: pain and hope, fear and love, those expressive eyes she cannot capture no matter how hard she tries. "I don't know what this means," he says.

"It means I haven't got it right yet, so I keep trying," she says.

"Do you?" He stands, holding the folio. Moving slowly, like an old man, a hurt man. "What are you trying to do?"

Boundaries: she stands on a border here. Between light and shadow, forward and back, despair and hope. He waits. He's done everything, and she has done nothing; she knows he will wait forever for her answer.

She reaches for the folio and he puts it in her hand as she steps forward. But she keeps going, right up against him, and the folio falls and spills him all over the floor: eyes and head and hands and feet, body parts in black and white all over her carpet. But it doesn't matter because they are only imitations in charcoal and chalk of the original, the one and only, here in front of her. She takes his hands in her smudged ones and they are warm.

She leans in and puts her forehead against his chest and his hands come up to hold her and they stand for a long time, breathing. Silent. A million subtle variations on love between them, none of them verbal and all of them true. She can hear him breathing into her hair, hears the catch in his throat, hears him swallow. Turns her head to hear his heart under her ear, feel his heat. Feels the tinge of color coming back into her life, softening the black and white and gray with a wash of pink for love and lavender for regret and green for new beginnings.

She's never been subtle, doesn't know what to say when he pulls away and looks a question at her. Her eyes answer for her. He is the only one who can read them.

"I have to go," he whispers, and she can't take her eyes off that mouth. She has never drawn his mouth, it's too big a challenge. "I ... I have to talk to her."

She nods. Yes, he has to have closure. Has to draw a new border in his life. She has to erase hers.

He lets go of her, steps back, swallows. "Do you ... shall I come back after?"

Again she nods. Feels the tremble of hope and anticipation.

"I might be late."

"I'll be here."

He leans in, kisses her hair softly. Puts a hand to her cheek and the thrill that goes through her is etched in scarlet, outlined in violet. He's at the door in two steps, gone in three, cold wind swirling behind him as the door closes. The wind picks up and scatters him all over her floor, and she kneels to pick up the drawings.

She needed darkness to find her light, but now she will find her balance.


NeverEnoughJam is the author of 24 other stories.
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