Again, thanks so much for all the reviews!  Every time I read one I feel guilty if I don’t immediately start writing, so keep it up! =)

Disclaimer: If I own anything let the magical Creed Bratton pop up on your screen right now and grant you three wishes… nope?  Okay, then I guess I don’t own anything.

            You’re halfway through a bottle of wine and another letter to him, lying on the bed in a pair of soft pajamas only dozens of washings can create.  This time you’ve dug out some thick blue paper from the bottom of your desk drawer.  The box under your bed has started to look really pretty, stuffed with multi-colored envelopes that are stamped and sealed but will never be sent off.

            Do you remember that time Packer asked me what my favorite sexual position was?  I think that may have been the maddest I’ve ever seen you.  For a second I thought you were actually going to hit him.  You deserved to hit him after he spent the entire day calling you “queer Halpert.”  But you didn’t.  I’m kind of embarrassed that I ever thought you might.  That I didn’t realize you would never, ever react like that. 

And you know what?  I’ve seen Roy in tons of fights (most of them while he was drunk) and he never looked as masculine or as brave as you did when you stared Packer down.  There was this fire in your eyes I hadn’t seen before and when you looked at me I felt tingling in every part of my body.  That’s so cliché, I know it is, but that’s the only way I can think of describing that sensation.

When you looked at me I knew exactly how to make you feel better.  We’ve always seemed to have this sixth sense, you know?  It’s been so difficult this year, so frustrating, knowing when you need to hear a joke, knowing when you need someone to talk to – knowing but not being able to do anything.  Because she’s right there, and for being so annoyingly perfect she never seems to pick up on those things at all.

You thanked me later that day for letting you vent, and now I’m thanking you.  Because even then, when I was still engaged, it meant so much to me that you would talk to me.  That you would want, need even, to talk to me.  Not brush the whole incident off, not tell me you didn’t want to talk about it, but just tell me everything.  One of the reasons I love you is because you can always make me laugh, but just talking to you – no jokes, no pranks – felt so incredibly right.

From the distance you hear knocking and can imagine his ham-sized fist slamming into the door over and over again, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and rage glinting in his eyes. 

Squeezing your eyes shut you hold your breath and wait for the shouting to begin.

Finally, finally the knocking stops and you’re able to cry again, shoulders shaking and tears smudging the jumble of thoughts twisting across the page in front of you.  The room blurs and you can see him everywhere, leaning casually against the doorframe, sitting next to you on the bed, smiling at you from across the room.

And rapping on your window.

Sorry that this one was a little short, but this seemed like an appropriate =) place to stop.  The next chapter will be longer!